A Bedtime Story

Written by me roundabout fifteen or sixteen years ago, when I was in High School, after my friends and I started catching flak from the school administration over a self-published "Independent School Newspaper"a bunch of us worked on. What's funny after the fact is I found out some of us were actually being watched by law enforcement, which I suspected at the time but didn't find out for sure until mentioning it to my mother a decade later.

Warning: Full of teen angst and righteous anger at adults who didn't get it.

* * *

 

Gather round, children, and listen well. Tonight I offer you the story of one Beanpole Jack. Now you must remember that jack was what most would call a freak, what with his purple hair, tattered shirt, and ratty trenchcoat, he was a downright disgrace, at least to his parents. He, of course, could have cared less. He had his music, his rhythmic antidepressant, and that was enough. He drifted through school, hardly aware, as he considered it barely a part of his reality. He was almost unaware of the teachers telling him he could do better. If he could, why didn't he? He was almost able to ignore the normal kids as they tortured and abused him. Almost. He lived simply for the weekends, when, in the nightclubs and houseparties, he could truly thrive, surrounded by friends, freaks like him. Here, there was no ill will, no fists from the crowd, only music, and acceptance. One late April day, at the end of his last year in high school, he walked into a pawn shop off Market street, and purchased a slightly used Beretta model 92 from the unscrupulous merchant, and a box of 9mm shells from the gun shop at the end of his block. For his father, of course. A week later, on a mild, cloudy morning, he walked into the cafeteria at his high school, the sight of a PTA bake sale, and began shooting the parents of those who had tormented him, those upon whom the blame truly fell. He, of course, did not aim away from his teenaged oppressors either. As the body count rose, the local police arrived, equipped as if for war. The snipers’ bullet entered his body just to the left of his heart, shredding his lung, and clipping his spine. Lying on the cold tile floor, his blood mingled with that of his victims, all of it red. Fighting against the creeping cold of unconsciousness, his body growing numb, he brought his pistol to his chin and pulled the trigger. On paper at least. Pouring his hostility into a notebook, he committed his killing spree in text alone. Still, this was enough to land him in court. Found in a "random spot check" of his locker, and his locker only, this tale of righteous retribution was taken as a dangerous plot. Even with his hair returned to a normal shade, a new suit and a good lawyer he couldn't make the jury believe it was a work of fiction. And so, children, today jack sits in a cold cell, having learned his lesson, learned that difference is punished, that thought crimes can be brought to trial. And sometimes, at night, alone in his bunk, he almost wishes he had carried out his plan. Almost.