Part 3 of 4 of "Imbalanced: Intake" - Terry

CHAPTER 3

Terry

December 15:

               

At 9:29 AM, just returned from checking in Angie Williams, Nurse Stewart stretched at her desk and yawned.  Though she’d been working the 12-hour grind once a week for the last few months, she hadn’t gotten used to it and knew she never would.  Very much a day person, she’d adjusted her schedule since returning to work after a very brief maternity leave following the birth of her baby girl, cutting her hours down and restructuring them so she could spend longer periods of time at home keeping an eye on the child.  It came at a price as she missed the consistent work pattern she’d enjoyed before her pregnancy.  The midnight to noon stretch could be taxing; often, she’d go home exhausted, left with the near impossible task of getting as much sleep as possible with her seemingly constantly crying daughter in the crib next to the bed.  Though uncomfortable, she soldiered on and didn’t regret the short-term sacrifice as she felt a mother needed to spend as much time with an infant as possible, the two getting to know each other as only mother and child could.  She just kept reassuring herself that it wouldn’t last much longer.   When not watching the child, her husband did as best he could with a full work schedule of his own and a nanny took care of the rest.   

When the automatic doors slid open again, the yawn that had barely left her mouth turned into a low groan she quickly had to stifle. 

Tired and cranky, she thought.  Stop being unprofessional. 

                Her irritation quickly kicked into her usual compassion when she saw the little figure being brought in by another officer she didn’t know.  A person hadn’t arrived so much as a wrapped white cloth, it’s occupant like meat in a burrito.  She could only she the tiny head with eyes as dazed as she’d ever seen on a face.  He was like a tiny elf next to the burly policeman. 

                What’s going on, officer?” she asked the man.  “I don’t think we’ve ever met.  I’m Nurse Stewart.”

                “Oh, Rob Barnes,” he replied distractedly.  “We’ve got a special young man here.” 

                “What happened?” 

“St. John Vianney Catholic school called us and said he’d thrown himself in front of a truck on West Cole St.  The truck swerved just in time to avoid him, though it caused a three-car accident due to the bad traction from the snow last night.” 

                “How badly is he injured?”

                “Just a bump on the left elbow.  It’s a little swollen but he seems fine otherwise.  When I got there, he’d been taken inside the school to the nurse’s station and they were treating him.  He was shivering so I wrapped him in a blanket I had in the back of my car.  I asked him some questions and felt he should be brought here.  He’s just turned 15.” 

                She looked at the little fellow, 5’1” at most and around 100 pounds.  “I’ll look at his elbow.”  What kind of things did he say?”

                “Some pretty bad delusions.  He said he’s going to Hell with Satan.  Jesus and Mary and God had abandoned him.  Demons were clawing at his soul.  Things like that.”   

                Nurse Stewart nodded.   She walked out from behind the desk and touched the pitiable figure on his left side.  He seemed a snowflake about to instantly fade away. 

“Can you walk with me?” she asked softly, moving as slowly as she could towards a small room near the intake desk, an empty room intended for patients to fill out checklists and generally have a place to sit while being prepared for either Unit A or B.  Having just turned 15, he qualified for the adult units.  Though nervous about the tough climate on Unit A, Nurse Stewart felt that to be the best option.  She felt comfortable Nurse Mathis would keep an eye on him as much as possible and that he would be safe.  Steadying him carefully, she reached around and took him by the blanketed shoulder and led him to the small room furnished only with a moderately sized round table and two chairs.  She sat him down in one of the chairs and gently tried to check his elbow.  He recoiled, and she chose to trust that his school’s nursing staff had taken ample care of the problem.  As she left the room, she said quietly:

                “I’ll be right back,” she said.  “Will you be okay?” 

                He said nothing, only dipping his head and folding his wrapped arms in front of him.  If he’d had the delusions and hallucinations the officer had said, he must be completely exhausted.  There was no way that little body could handle a devastated brain.  No way.  Hard psychotic episodes would eviscerate him like a piece of cored fruit.  She had reached the door to leave when a soft, almost inaudible sound tugged her back like a small thread on her waistline. 

                “I’m cold,” it whispered, as he shivered under the blanket. The pitiful little voice made her want to cry but she stayed professional, turned off her emotions, and repeated: “I’ll be right back.” 

                She went to her desk, grabbed a checklist and returned.  The little man had not moved.  Silently, not wanting to jar him with even a tiny breeze of movement, she put the checklist on the table.  He looked penitent and humble in his white blanket, a figure not bowed by the weight of the world but by the weight of his mind.   He looked up at her for the first time with narrow, dead eyes that suddenly bulged with intense fear as if she were an enormous beast bent on maiming or killing him.  He shook, firmly rubbed both arms with both hands and buried his chin into his chest. 

“It’s okay!  It’s okay!” she said.  She visualized him in the crib with her baby, nearly as small and just as innocent.  He stared at the checklist as if it were a solid black block, completely incapable of filling it out.  She paused for a moment, took him again by the shoulders, slowly stood him up and gingerly walked him out the door and down the hall towards Unit A, resisting the impulse to apply a shot of Haldol, confident that the young man didn’t need it and not sure he could even tolerate it.  Once there, she put him in the first room past the door, a room now empty after the previous occupant had been moved to Unit B the day before.  Sunlight filled the room through the uncovered window.  Nurse Stewart squinted and held up her left hand to block it out.  She sat the boy down on the edge of the bed, lifted his legs onto it and eased his head down onto the pillow.  Still shrouded in the blanket, his eyes were closed, his body shook, and his thumb moved up into his mouth.  She pulled the bed cover over both he and the blanket; the sheet seemed a tidal wave swamping him.  The boy curled up instinctively but continued to shake.  She looked down at him for a few moments, not thinking, just feeling, feeling horrible for him, horrible that he was even there, horrible that she was looking at him, wishing they were both elsewhere, always wishing she could be elsewhere, that it wasn’t necessary to be there, that mental illness didn’t exist.   

I love my job and I’m helping, she thought.  I wish I didn’t have to but that’s life.  She went to the window and drew the shade, the sunlight largely blocked but not entirely by the brown, opaque curtain which now looked an ugly mustard yellow.  She yawned widely as she left the room.  The sunlight had hit her more like a sharp stab than a refresher.  Moving to the Unit A tech office, she alerted head tech Sue Pederson of Terry’s arrival. 

“Not giving you any rest?” Sue asked playfully. 

“Zero,” Sandra Stewart replied with yet another yawn.  On the way back to her desk, Nurse Stewart again ritually read her watch:  9:52 AM.  Over two hours to go.  Two hours then home to a crying infant.  Maybe she’d have to change her schedule again after all…

December 14:

               

                Turning the corner shortly before 8 AM, the snow plow roared by where the tiny fellow stood, his shoes just avoiding the dirty, gray snow pitched his way with a fortuitously timed hop.  He looked after the plow as it pulled away, an ugly, filthy black machine slicing through the snow like an old, rusty battleship slicing through ocean waters.  Large clumps of snow, some hard, icy bricks, some soft powder that disintegrated when struck, flew off to the side of the road, the hard ones adding to the five feet high mounds already there from the filthy, black machine’s work the previous month.   The tiny fellow had been standing at the corner for ten minutes as the freezing cold wind whistled in his ears and burned his face; he had to stifle a cry while sucking the snot in his runny nose down his throat.   It was bitterly cold that morning; 20 degrees the weatherman on TV had said with a wind chill around 10.  It must be endured because he couldn’t be late for school.  What if the bus had come and he wasn’t at the corner to be picked up?  As it was one of the two days of the week when his Catholic school class went to mass, he couldn’t miss it for he loved mass.  A strong Christian since adolescence, freshly turned 15 Terry Day loved school because he loved religion and school often meant church or some other religious activity.  He loved school because he felt loved in the arms of God and Jesus and Mary.   Sadly, love didn’t walk arm in arm with safety for he was bullied each school day almost constantly, bullied because of his size and his simplicity, bullied because of his naivete, bullied because he wasn’t secular enough in his passions, bullied because he only wanted to serve Jesus and God, bullied because he was different, bullied because he was “uncool.”  His classmates talked and shared the latest music or movies or fashions.  Strangely, to his mind, they didn’t seem to want to talk about God or Jesus much.  Wasn’t that the point of Catholic school?  To learn about God and the Bible and grow as Christians?  Socially, that never worked for him.  Quoting Bible verses and relating parables never worked.   His peers laughed at and mocked him when he did so.  He didn’t fight back to any of it.  He just tried to smile and laugh at what happened.   He didn’t try to fight back because he believed in the Golden Rule and wished harm to no one.   Even if he didn’t believe in the Golden Rule, he couldn’t have fought back anyway.   It just wasn’t in his nature and it forced him to use honey instead of vinegar.  When he tried to relate to his classmates as a deeply pious young man, the lack of social integration, the lack of even one good friend, hurt him badly.  Like all young people his age, he desperately needed friends yet never seemed to speak the language of his peers.  Well, committed to changing that, trying to reach out to others as they didn’t to him, he had been working on social material the last several weeks.  He asked his parents about the sexual slang terms he didn’t know that the school boys mocked him with, but his parents didn’t know, either.  He tried listening to rock and hip-hop music but never really “got” what the music was about or why anyone would enjoy it.  He liked movies and tried to relate there but all the other boys talked about were rated R films and they were bad news in his mind at that age.  The other boys had sophisticated senses of humor.   Terry was still learning what was funny and what wasn’t.  He saw the class clowns getting laughs and positive social feedback, so he thought trying to be funny was a good direction to go in.  If he could just do something right, he could have friends and could have a day where he wasn’t rejected and laughed at.  It could be the truly happy day, from beginning to end, that he had never had as a school boy. 

He’d been staying up later than usual the past week to see the opening monologue of a late-night talk show trying to learn the jokes, trying to gauge the laughter or rejection from the audience.  He internalized the jokes that he knew would work because the audience had laughed and laughed when the talk show host told them.  Still, the jokes, themselves, might not be enough.  There was a way to tell them that he had internalized and now practiced as he waited for the bus.   

                “Did you hear what the president said last night?” he said out loud.  “No?  He said that the budget would take care of itself if he could just get the charge card from his wife!” 

What does that mean exactly?  he thought.  I don’t understand money much.  Well, the audience laughed so it must be funny.  Now what if they tell me a joke? 

“Yeah, I saw that last night.  Yeah, that was hilarious!  I laughed so hard.  Yeah, I saw that too.  I thought it was cool!” 

That’s not bad.  Or is it?  What if someone comes up and asks me something in a few seconds? 

Just do your best.  Be nice to people, reach out to them and they’ll embrace you and want to be friends with you.  Tell them your jokes and make them laugh.  They’ll like you then.  Yeah, you’re right.  Everything will be okay. 

“What are you going to do later?  I’ll probably go home and watch TV, maybe read something.  I want to relax after my day.  Sounds like a plan.” 

                I’ll be funny, too.  They’ll like me for making them laugh and they won’t call me retarded anymore.  I’ll be cool. 

                The bus came into view in the distance, moving smoothly in the long wake of the departed black machine.  Suddenly, he began to doubt his preparation and became terrified it wouldn’t be successful.  Socially, he was naturally very awkward. 

It’s okay, calm down, relax.  You’re funny and you can make people laugh; just know that and smile and laugh and have a carefree day.  You’re funny, right?  I don’t know.  Yes, you are.  Confidence.  They’ll be on your side today.  They won’t laugh at you today.  They won’t laugh at you today.  They won’t laugh at you today…

                The bus stopped with a whining clunk of its veteran engine, the door opening a few seconds before the bus stopped.  To Terry, the opening loomed very high and dark.  Almost everything loomed high and dark to his 5 and ½ inch height.  The female bus driver chewed gum and wore a heavy, yellow coat and a hat that looked like a policeman’s.  She looked at him in the bored expectation of his boarding, the same mindless repetition she’d seen thousands of times.  He paused a moment and she glared at him, aggressively chomping on her gum, her bored expectation swiftly turning into impatience.  He noticed and tried to climb the first step too quickly.  The toe of his right shoe scraped against the step and hit the ground hard, landing in a thick, dark sludge ball that had come off the bus’s front tire hubcap moments earlier.  His upper body lurched forward, and he had to grab hold of the thick, metal bar inside the bus to keep from falling on his face. 

Funny.  It’s funny.  That was funny, he told himself.  His second try successful, he was on board, full of hope like a sailor braving the white sea leading to today’s adventure, unpredictable and new, scary yet exciting.  There was a chance…there was always hope, wasn’t there?

                Today is going to be different.  I’ll be happy today. 

                Strong animals, those that survive, are wary, ever looking out for potential enemies.  Hopes of happiness, the foundation of a positive, healthy attitude in human beings, frequently create contentment and a vulnerable openness.  Such hope can lead to emotional disaster when unrequited and animals become prey when they can’t defend themselves.  The human animal is damaged by innocence.  Sooner or later, they must be.  As Terry climbed onto the bus, he made sure he smiled.  Smiling wasn’t natural for him; no real radiant facial expressions were but he was going to make it work.  His positive attitude, born mostly from his faith, had grown from innocence.  He was too naïve to think otherwise. 

“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God,” said the Book of Matthew.   He remembered Bible quotes that struck a chord with him.  They became part of his mantra, a course of thinking that strengthened his faith in the possibilities of life more than the chances of their actual attainment.  He didn’t have a disciplined mind and became frequently detached from his surroundings, left to feel vacant and distant, often being led by voices and images in his head that he believed were true expressions of what he knew.   Mary melodically came in a sweet, female voice, guiding him through his day with caring and nurturing words.   Jesus manifested as the classic image of the loving man with brown locks and beard, arms outstretched in love, his voice soft and penitent offering words of insight and encouragement.  God gloriously materialized as a sensation of eternal wonder, ubiquitously and omnipotently universal, everything Terry couldn’t see but knew to be there. 

Now, at the front of the bus, he looked over his peer’s faces; not one looked his way and he couldn’t help a small tinge of sadness.  For a young person, true loneliness was insignificance, no one willing to connect with you, your entire life irrelevant.  For the next emotional step, he had to find a seat, each one a potential minefield of pain.  A young man sat alone two seats down on the left.  As Terry approached, the young man moved to the seat’s edge with a scowl, blocking Terry from sitting there.   Rocked, the hopeful, artificial smile he’d worn didn’t fade but quickly grew fragile.  The hopes built up since school ended the day before melted like hot snow.  What did he expect?  The whole bus standing to embrace him?  As illogical as it sounds, Terry had hoped for just such a thing.  Everything in life is possible, right?  He tried three seats down on the right where a girl bigger than her age sat alone.  After sitting next to her, backpack in his lap, she rose with evident frustration, slid out of the seat, crushing his legs against it, and sat with two girls two seats up, who seemed not overly happy with her presence but tolerated it.  Seeing Terry alone, two boys farther back saw their chance to get closer to the front and made their move.  The first boy stepped into the space of Terry’s seat and kneed him in the leg. 

“Get out,” the boy said, the other laughing like something awesome had just happened.   Terry, on the verge of tears, melted into his seat for a moment. 

“You heard him.  Get out!” the second boy said aggressively like he was having great fun, completely aware of Terry’s physical impotence.  Terry stood, backpack in both hands, and slowly moved out of the seat.  The first boy elbowed him aside and flopped down on the end near the window.  The second boy energetically plopped down next to the first boy, where they began a lively conversation about how much they hated math while making fun of the teacher that taught it, Mrs. Gross.  “What’s grosser than gross?  Mrs. Gross!” was the joke.  One of the back seats was the only one empty.  Terry hated going to the back seats but that’s all that was left.  He liked being closer to the bus driver in case something happened but had no choice now.  He sadly slid into the empty back seat to his right and put his backpack near the window.  Today had started like every other day. 

Soon, the bus reached its destination, St. John Vianney, the largest local Catholic school.  One positive about sitting in the back seats is Terry didn’t have to face anyone on his way out, anyone except the boy in the seat opposite, a solemn looking young man with a nervous leg and terrible acne.  Terry didn’t know but the boy had also been horribly bullied and, sadly, had already attempted suicide twice.  One day, not far in the future, he would succeed.  Now, he sneered at Terry as he left his seat, the rule of the bullied holding sway, the unwritten rule that the bullied shun and, occasionally, prey on each other, the desperate behaviors of the lowest of the low trying anything to be higher than someone, anyone, on the social ladder.  The sneer piled on top of all the other moments of social pain Terry had felt in his life, all the bad memories that would forever cling to his soul like barbed wire.  The last to exit the bus, Terry’s small stature seemed to meld into the heavy ice and salt covered pavement, a forgotten afterthought, another meaningless statistic in a world full of them.  He entered inside the main entrance with the other students. 

They put their coats away and left their books for their first classes at the base of their lockers.  All bullied children know in between classes to be the most dangerous times of the day.  The order of the classroom and the teacher’s protection disappear and the bullies, having licked their chops while usually ignoring whatever was being taught, were as excited to pounce as the bullied were terrified to be consumed.  The students at Terry’s grade level attended the same classes.  Two such boys had taken it upon themselves to be Terry’s bullies that semester.  Physically, they were an odd couple, opposites in stature, one squat with big muscles for his age, the other tall and wiry who compensated for physical weakness with clever, precision insults.  Born into wealthy, strongly conservative households, both were raised to believe the strong and socially fortunate, meaning themselves, were put on the planet as custodians of the genetic legacy of human beings, namely that the “weak” were meant to be destroyed; if they helped make that happen, all the better.  They weren’t raised to feel bad kicking the less fortunate and bullying Terry became a self-righteous labor of love, one that they performed with glee and with no pang of guilt. 

The students lined up for Mass, Terry’s favorite school activity and what he looked most forward to, taking care to be near friends for socializing; both bullies smoothly corralled Terry, one in front and one behind, keeping him at the back of the group.  A teacher, who would be their first teacher of the day upon returning, led the line of students, loosely chatting in spots, to the school church, a large, impressive building connected to the school on one end.  The weaker bully behind Terry pushed him several times into the back of the squat, strong bully, who absorbed the near non-existent force of Terry’s body with pleasure, Terry falling to his knees more than once on the way.  The teacher, a caring though disinterested man, led the group without scanning it.  He didn’t consider it his job to be policing the students or playing nursemaid or babysitter, leaving them to their own devices.  In him, the bullied had no champion.  They would have to go it alone.   

               

                The group reached the church.  Terry’s bullies felt uncomfortable attacking him in the easily policed surroundings; knowing that, Terry felt his first bit of relief as they disconnected from him and filed into one of the front pews.  The other students took their places, most next to their friends.  Terry moved towards the teacher in the back pew behind the group and took his place just in front of him. 

                The priest, a pleasant, white haired, 65-year-old man, who had been a pillar at the school and in the community for over 30 years, led the service.  The strength of God, a common subject for mass and one Terry desperately needed to hear, blessedly flowed from the preacher’s lips.  Already beaten down by others in his life, Terry questioned not his faith or his trust or his hope but his place in the world.  They were always going to come at him and he wouldn’t have the strength, the personal strength, to fight them, to keep his head above water.  He would eventually run out of gas and fall easy prey, probably sooner than later, for the last time, a time he would never recover from.  He needed God’s strength because it was the only strength he could turn to.

                After reading from scripture, the halfway point of the service had come and the priest, Bible in hand, walked down the two steps separating the pulpit from the pews to be among the students for his homily. 

                “Well, you’re all reaching the end of your first semester.  Feeling pretty stressed?” he asked with a smile.  Several students nodded, some smiling, some grimacing.  Terry, expressionless, didn’t move.  The priest’s tone was light, like Sheriff Andy Taylor was giving the homily.

                “Well, that’s perfectly understandable and I’m sure a few of you are feeling overwhelmed right now…”  His comment, meant generally, shrouded Terry in deeper loneliness.  Talking about stress didn’t make him smile or grimace.  It made him further realize his plight.  Inadvertently, the priest had driven the knife further into his heart. 

                “I’m going to share with you some passages from the Bible, hopefully inspirational for you. They provide strength when the trials of the real world weigh us down and we need to seek comfort in the Lord, who is with us when we suffer and when we feel disjointed and uncomfortable.”

                Terry entered a kind of hypnotic trance when he felt in the presence of God and His Word.  This time, the reading from scripture hadn’t penetrated his sadness.  He remained expressionless, stone faced, a young man currently unable, whether in words or body language, to show the pain he felt. 

                The priest read the story of Jesus’s temptation by the Devil from Matthew as an illustration of how trusting in the Lord helps us win our toughest battles, even against the Devil, himself.  The story, which Terry had heard and read several times, always made him feel better because he could envision himself as Jesus, calling on the Lord to help and protect him when the Devil invaded his body and mind.  The priest then read from Psalm 73: 

                “My flesh and my heart may fail but God is the strength and my heart and my portion forever.” 

                Psalm 16 followed: “I have set the Lord always before me because he’s at my right hand.  I shall not be shaken.” 

                And, finally, Isaiah 41: “Fear not, for I am with you.  Be not dismayed for I am your God.  I will strengthen you.  I will help you.  I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” 

                A shaft of light slashed into Terry’s dark; he entered his trance, his meditation, his strength, his happy place, his slice of deluded serenity.  He felt hopeful again.  God and Mary and Jesus were winning; the Devil and his demons were frustrated. 

                See, you are protected, he heard Mary say.  

                The priest’s words flowed like pure manna from the Lord, himself.  Why should Terry feel bad or lost or rejected when the Lord was around him, by his side, in his soul?  No, he was still going to have faith in God and faith in people, the Lord’s children.  Goodness flowed through him.  Blame for social unhappiness clearly rested on his shoulders.  He must do better.  He must keep working on it. 

                 The mass ended not long after the Eucharist.  Though feeling refreshed and emboldened, Terry checked to see where his bullies were.  Another of those “in between” moments leaving vulnerable students open to attack had arrived.   He breathed a sigh of relief when they, lost in conversation with a girl Terry didn’t know, took their place towards the front of the line that reformed for going back to school.  Taking care not to connect with a potential new bully, he brought up the rear of the group and suffered no further abuse on the way back to their lockers.

                Still in a dazed, religious euphoria, Terry grabbed his books, stood, and had them immediately slapped out of his arms by the shorter bully.  His euphoria faded.  The Devil’s fiery eyes flashed.  His demons licked their chops.    God and Mary and Jesus seemed a little weaker.  Terry groped for Bible verses and remembered one each from Matthew and Luke. 

                Matthew 16.6: “When the disciples heard this, they fell to the ground and were overcome by fear but Jesus came and touched them, saying, ‘Get up and do not be afraid.’” 

                Luke 19.9-10: “Then Jesus said to him, ‘Today salvation has come to this house, because he too is a son of Abraham.  For the Son of Man came to seek out and to save the lost.’” 

                Terry collected his books and entered his first hour classroom last of his peers.  Another long day awaited.  He chose to have faith.  It was the only thing left. 

                The first class of the day was a broad overall class on Christianity; other than a visit from their priest after the lunch period, it stood as the only strictly religious class of the day.  The seats were arranged alphabetically.  Terry’s seat was in the second to last row.  Through a brutal twist of fate, the shorter bully glowered in the seat right behind him.  As Terry sat, he noticed a note laying on his desk. 

                “Recess,” was the only word written.  The word resonated like a vow from Satan.  The short bully smiled as Terry read it, knowing that the freshly terrified young man knew what it meant.  A wave of sadness and panic swept over Terry as he plopped into his seat, the word “Recess” rattling around large in his mind; the word flowed jagged and deadly not from the bully but from Satan.  For the first time, it all seemed clear to Terry.  Satan had commanded his demon, the short bully, to write it.  Both bullies were demons.  Satan was coming for his soul…at recess.  He gave in to the reality he saw. 

                The class’s subject matter from the start of the semester had been Jesus’s road from birth to crucifixion.  Nearing the end of the term, they were covering the latter.  The teacher taught of the betrayals of Judas and the Sanhedrin, the indifference of Pontius Pilate, the agonized suffering of Jesus and his death.  The Devil spoke: 

                You are the soul of Judas.  You are the soul of Pontius Pilate.  You murdered the Son of God and ruined peace and happiness for every human for all eternity.  All suffering and all pain in the world is because of you.  Every reincarnated soul knows you are the worst evil to ever live.

                Terry accepted what the Devil said but wondered why he’d said it.  He could only conclude that, like God, the Devil worked in mysterious ways, ways he didn’t understand.   A sense of the loathing of millions began to creep into his consciousness.  Why was this happening? 

                He continued to ponder as class ended.  As the students filed out, Terry heard snickers from two girls behind him.  Turning towards them, one of the girls said: “You have something on your back.”  The other girl snickered louder as they left the room.  Terry turned his back to a small, slim mirror near the door and looked over his shoulder.  The short bully had drawn a thick black cross on his white school shirt which Terry would have to sport all day.  He didn’t have the strength to confront the bully and demand a new shirt.  As always, he helplessly, hopelessly forgave, this forgiveness closer to turning a blind eye than any legitimate pity.  The short bully didn’t ask for, nor want, forgiveness but he got it anyway. 

                The marked cross made Terry even more fearful of the period in between classes because he now had a target literally on his back.  As the students moved towards the room of their second class, Terry heard the snickers behind him, both male and female, which he knew were directed his way.  The cross may as well have been a scarlet letter, fully alerting those that hadn’t figured out how vulnerable and unpopular he was, clearing the way for fresh abuse and an even greater emotional burden.  A student rushing to connect with a friend bumped Terry’s left side from behind; Terry didn’t consider it an attack.  Though small, people always seemed to bump into him, whether they had intended to or not. 

                The second class of the day was mathematics, geometry being the focus of the first term and algebra the second.  Terry, for all his effort and the relatively easy nature of the material at that level, had barely scraped by the exams.  His math struggles didn’t matter that day as the school had planned a Christmas movie to watch, a comedy which would cover two class periods, as a special surprise.  Steel chairs were set up in the large room facing a TV and the students were told to take whichever seats they wanted for the film.  It was like the bus all over again.  Friends rushed to sit next to each other, mostly in twos, the most popular kids in clusters of seats in different rows.  Late to the musical chairs, Terry had to take a seat in the back nearest the windows, well away from the teacher who sat in the front row seat nearest the door.  Terry breathed a sigh of relief when a student he didn’t know sat beside him.  The joy faded quickly as the short bully put his hand on the student’s right shoulder as a command to stand.  The student, fully aware of the short bully’s status, quickly stood and occupied the bully’s now vacant seat.  The taller bully watched with pleasure as the short one sat down next to Terry, well away from the eyes of the disinterested teacher, who returned to his seat after turning the lights off. 

                The film began and the students, other than a few friends who whispered jokes to each other, settled into mostly silent watchfulness.  The first attack came five minutes in with a hard elbow from the bully’s left arm to Terry’s right.  Terry wanted to speak, to get attention to his situation but, like a true waking nightmare, the words fell so far down it would have taken a labyrinthine journey of hours for them to find his throat again.  He felt so tired, completely unable to defend himself.  The next attack came verbally almost twenty-five minutes in. 

                “You’re a jerk off.  You’re a jerk off.  You’re a jerk off,” the bully kept repeating into Terry’s right ear, looking back several times at the taller bully who smiled and repeatedly nodded his approval.  Both bullies felt enormous pleasure at hurting someone so small and seemingly insignificant, an ant in a world of big shoes.  Terry heard the voices again.

                We’ve come for you.  We’ve come for you.  We’ve come for you. 

                The attacks during the rest of the film were a mixture of verbal and physical, more elbows mixed in with hard knees and insults about Terry’s perceived sexuality.  One word was repeated several times:

                “Recess.”

                Terry’s plight went unnoticed in the classes’ laughter, both by the other students and the teacher.  They were watching a comedy; Terry was living a horror.  He saw the demons and the horribly glaring eyes.  Satan’s eyes and Satan’s words: 

I’m here. I’m real. I’m going to kill you.  You’ll scream for eternity with me. 

“Go away, Satan!  Terry thought desperately, doing his best to invoke how Jesus attacked the Devil in the Book of Matthew.  “The Scriptures say that ‘Worship the Lord your God and Serve only Him.’” 

The Devil smiled, unbeaten.  Where are you going?  What are you going to do?  You’re into my arms at recess.  You will die.  Your soul will be mine.  I will kill you and you will come to me and you will burn forever in my fires.  You will scream forever, and it will never end.  You will scream forever in my arms.  Death is coming at recess.  Your soul is mine forever at recess. 

                The film ended and the students, in pleasant moods from the pleasant film, quickly filed out.  Expecting a parting shot, Terry cringed as the bully rose but did nothing, not feeling the need to strike a death blow.  That would come in a few minutes.  It was time for recess. 

                During most of that term, Terry would avoid recess as often as possible, usually finding the same teacher who occasionally allowed him to stay inside helping with small tasks, including things as simple as emptying the garbage, which Terry volunteered to do with alacrity.  Anything to avoid his classmates at recess.  Whenever he went out, he was immediately targeted and physically pushed into playing whatever game the students wanted to play.  Often, it was tether ball, the bullies pushing Terry into the ball’s flight path as often as possible, it often hitting him in the head, sometimes, the face, once splitting his lip.  Now, Terry went looking for the teacher, but he was nowhere to be found.  Panicked, Terry asked another teacher, who told him the man wasn’t there today.  So that’s why the bullies were so giddy over recess.  They had been watching Terry’s activities and knew his favorite teacher, his lifeline, wasn’t there, knew a great chance presented itself that Terry would be forced outside; they were right.  Terry desperately looked for anyone that would let him stay inside but it was no use.  Mary had abandoned him.  Jesus had abandoned him.  God shunned and rejected him.  He deserved it.  He was Pontius Pilate.  He was Judas.  He had destroyed Jesus.  He had destroyed the world. 

                He moved towards the front doors, in his fear forgetting to grab his coat, and lingered, unable to leave the building.  The assistant principal, charged with making sure the hallways were empty and the students outside, urged Terry to go out.  Terry opened the doors and stepped out before being called back by the assistant principal who told him to get his coat, which he did.  Returning, with one last shiver of dread, he cracked the doors just enough to go out, the glass seeming an enormous gate in his small hands and shuffled towards the playground to join his peers. 

                Dark clouds foreshadowed imminent snow.  Terry nearly slipped several times on the plowed but slippery parking lot.  As usual, the students had collected on a grassy field, now hard and dusty with frost, just past the parking lot next to a small, now frozen, stream.  The Devil awaited.  Time to accept his punishment. 

                The game the boys played was called “Smear the Queer” in which a football was thrown in the air, usually to the weakest boys perceived as gay or mentally challenged, who then had to carry the ball as the other boys attempted to gang tackle them.  To the bullies and those that laughed along with them, Terry, perceived as both gay and challenged, screamed “ball carrier.”  His two bullies loved this game.  Ready to start, the taller one clenched the football in his wiry hands.  The other boys, the ones that were occasional targets but usually not, waited in fear for the sick game to begin, laughing nervously like they were having fun, like they hated queers, the game’s namesake.  No, they weren’t gay.  They all hated gays. 

                They all waited, most prepared to drop the ball like a scorching potato if it came their way.  The tall bully held the ball for a reason.  Having seen Terry slowly shuffling towards the field, he resolved that NO ONE else would get the ball first.  The bully felt powerful, invincible, his aggression soon to be sated against the student with the least chance of fighting back.   Terry would get the ball and they’d all run through him like NFL linemen assaulting a tackling dummy.  The other boys thought, if they joined in strongly enough, took their places in the herd, they were less likely to be perceived as soft, less likely to get the ball.  Such perception could get them isolated or, worse, the new target of Smear the Queer.  Catch it and get smeared or try to get rid of it and incur the wrath of he that threw it. 

                The sad little figure made the final step from concrete to green field.  The game could begin. The taller bully waited until Terry had stumbled closer to the center of the field.  Clearly the target, the boys moved away from him like he was a Roman Senator about to get the knife.  What they didn’t realize was Terry came to the field to die, ready to accept his punishment for killing Jesus and destroying the peace and happiness of the world.  He had wronged them all and they were right to attack.  God had abandoned him, left him to Satan and his legions to do the job.  Even though it wasn’t possible to be both Judas and Pontius Pilate, Terry couldn’t reason the difference, his brain ravaged by the illness he couldn’t begin to truly understand.  He hoped to sacrifice his soul would help fix the evil he created, the evil he was, and the Hell on Earth he had inflicted on God’s true children.  He approached the taller bully, held out his hands and closed his eyes.  The bully felt both shock and glee that the dweeb was asking for it.  He tossed the ball the ten feet of distance into Terry’s arms. 

He didn’t catch it, of course.  He tried but it slipped easily through his soft, untrained arms.  It didn’t matter if he caught it.  The die had been cast, the ball had been thrown and the game was on.  Bloodlust spread like an unseen virus.  The short bully, working in concert with his friend, had moved in behind Terry.  The ball in the air, he lowered his shoulder and prepared for attack.  Once it hit Terry in the chest and spilled through the hands, the bully charged like a rhinoceros, slamming his shoulder into the middle of Terry’s back.  One student thought he saw Terry literally break in two.  Instantly knocked out, the pathetic figure went down face and left shoulder first on the hard, green tundra, where he lay unmoving.  The other boys cheered from the fringes. 

                “Get the fag!” one of them yelled. 

                “Kill him!” another shouted with delirious pleasure.  “Yeah, kill him!” 

                The football, which had bounced several feet away after Terry dropped it, rested, for the moment, on the pavement just outside the tundra, a momentarily static, disinterested witness to the spectacle.  All eyes were on the shorter bully as he stood over his broken road kill, his breath heavy, his lips and nose sneered, his eyes malignant yet satisfied, his body poised to attack any of those eyes currently upon him, a horrifying possibility to them all.  The taller bully walked, smiling, over to the football, picked it up and tossed it onto the frosted pitch among the other boys.  It lay dormant for several seconds before one, trying to impress his peers in a rush of blood to the head, ran towards it, scooped it up like a precious stone and took off with a maniacal laugh, getting a dozen feet away before getting knocked flat down by two boys hitting him on both sides at once.  Another boy scooped the ball up, with reservations, and the game continued.  Unconscious, Terry didn’t feel the two kicks to his ribs, one intentional and the other not. 

                The recess period ended ten minutes later.  Most of the boys jogged back to the building while the girls, mostly congregated in one large group with the most popular at the center, followed, scarves pulled over faces, hands with mittens holding coat sleeves to keep cold air from shooting up arms.  The recess monitor, a female teacher who had kept her eyes on the girls almost the entire period, followed them all inside, secure that the boat retained all passengers.  She hadn’t noticed the little speck of humanity still down and out on his side on the turf; the football, ready for the same ritual the next day, lay a few feet away from his body.  It began to snow, soft flakes falling to earth like bits of dirt in an open grave. 

               

“The Devil is coming!  The Devil is going to get me!” 

                In shivering panic, Terry stammered such lines over and over from the passenger seat of his mother’s unassuming four door sedan.  An hour earlier, he had returned to consciousness, twenty-five minutes after recess had ended, and wandered back into the school building, dazed and shaking, flakes from the falling snow like dandruff in his hair, rambling about the Devil and his demons.  A quick call home brought his thin, fair haired, unpretentious mother in her unpretentious car to come get him.  Directed to the nurse’s office, she was told Terry had come in from the playing field, battered and spouting gibberish, and was either mentally ill or suffering from temporary hallucinations of some kind.  The news confused Mrs. Rachel Day.  Mental illness?  She knew nothing of mental illness.  As deeply religious as her son, she never paid much attention to science or the human brain or any kind of brain illnesses or whatever they were.  She and her husband, Terry’s father, had always tried to live as simply as possible.  An accountant, he provided for the family while she had taken an aggressive stance in the church at Terry’s school, volunteering as often as possible and taking in all the church functions she could.  She and her family were good Christians, the kind that went on missions to foreign countries, not the kind that relished excess or vied for power and financial influence.  Though Terry’s struggles with his peers upset her greatly at times, they were predominately a calm, stable family that tried to adhere to the positive doctrines of Christianity as much as they could.  Such values didn’t include an in-depth knowledge of mental illness; the only words of wisdom the Bible could offer were exorcisms performed by Jesus and the hope that no illness, demon inspired or not, would afflict you or your family.   Rachel Day prayed and trusted in the Lord.  It worked for her husband, also a man of strong faith, and it worked for her.  At least, she thought it worked for her husband.  An aloof man emotionally, his lack of passionate reactions to all situations often perplexed her, though it never interfered with their marriage.  Their lives had been the picture of stability to that point.  Something alien, “Mental illness” loomed as unknown and foreign as creatures on distant planets.  Did these so-called illnesses even exist?  She didn’t know.  Now, Terry, her beloved son, and mental illness had been discussed in the same breath.  What did that mean?  She didn’t know that, either. 

                Taking Terry in charge, she led him to her car and proceeded to drive home.  On the way there, his intense ramblings about the Devil and his demons and Hell and Judas and Pontius Pilate shocked and upset her.  He seemed possessed.  What was she going to do? 

                After arriving home at their nice, though unpretentious, one story home, Mrs. Day helped the still shivering Terry out of the passenger seat, gripping him firmly, and into the house, taking great care not to slip on the driveway, which sported a fresh coat of the still falling snow.   Turning the heat up from an already high level, she moved Terry to his room, took off his coat and school clothes and dressed him in warm pajamas.  He needed a shower but clearly couldn’t accomplish it.  Recognizing his surroundings, his panicked energy ebbed and he slipped into near catatonia.   

                “Terry?” she asked several times, with no response.  His face, shrouded in frozen darkness, didn’t move, didn’t crease.  His lifeless eyes didn’t flicker, didn’t stare, didn’t comprehend.  He seemed a rag doll, as limp as she’d ever seen her soft, harmless son, a person as incapable of violence as a feather, as incapable of angry, violent feelings or premeditated retribution as a newborn baby.  She was so proud he was so good, so hopeful, so positive about his fellow students and mankind, so strong in his faith; sadly, his pain and fears turned inward when felt, his refusal to hate anyone that inflicted such pain on him leading to self-reproach, his being so devoid of negative animal instincts that his chances of surviving in a world of chaos seemed a near impossibility.  She trusted the Catholic Church, overall, and did everything she could to trust her local church, specifically, getting involved as much as possible, trying to spread the spirit of love and compassion as widely as she could.  Yet so many times Terry would come home crying, so sad that his day had gone so poorly, seemingly every day.  He would share insults inflicted on him, trying to figure out what they were and why they were directed his way.  He didn’t feel the longing for retribution, but she did.  She carried the anger he couldn’t, so mad at the miserable realities that dominated the lives of young adults even in a Christian environment, so sad he was sad, so hurt he was hurt.  They would often cry together, her holding him close, trying to absorb his pain, the instinct to let go never arriving.  Sometimes she’d read Bible passages meant to inspire or strengthen or provide hope, sometimes more for her than him.  Then he’d go to his room and sleep or read or do his homework and would invariably come out at dinnertime positive and hopeful for the next day and his chances at school.  She sometimes told his concerned yet emotionally aloof father about Terry’s circumstances when he got home from work, though not always.  He’d always ask if any changes were necessary and she’d tell him how they’d cope, and she’d work harder in the church to push for positive changes on issues like bullying and protection for students and the faculty would nod and agree and nothing would change and it would all start again.  As powerless as Terry, she could only suffer with him.

                She tucked Terry into bed, turned out the light and watched by the door as he rolled onto his left side, his face out of her sight.  Her head told her to leave, to let him sleep, but her heart could not.  She crawled into bed next to him, turned him towards her and held him as she cried.  He felt her tears falling like water flowing from a mountain top though he didn’t connect, didn’t share her pain as she felt his.  He had never known such emptiness; in the moment, it overwhelmed and crushed him.  Exhausted, he lazily placed his head just below her left breast and tried to sleep.  He didn’t nod off until a half hour later, dull and deadened, his mother’s continuing tears a tragic lullaby in his ears. 

                He didn’t wake until after darkness had fallen.  His mother had stayed with him for an hour after he’d fallen asleep, then left to sit at the kitchen table in intermittent crying fits until her husband came home and was informed of the day’s events.  As always, he asked if changes needed to be made and she, as always, said they’d cope and she’d step up her church activities.  Terry joined them in the living room shortly after waking, eliciting another emotional hug from his Mom followed by a flat, dull, though concerned pat on the back from his flat, dull though concerned father.  Terry sat with his Mom, who’d once again pulled him to her like adhesive tape, on the couch while his father read the paper from his chair with the nightly news on TV.  Around 9 PM, he, with difficulty, detached from his mother.  Though his body ached, his mood felt better; however, for Terry, that also meant he felt much worse.  His positive attitude returned but so did the fear.  Around this time, the clock watching began, the anxiety of another uncertain day of school growing ever greater.  His mood had improved but his fatigue made another attempted assault up the “mountain of impressing his classmates” impossible.   Any new jokes would have to wait.  He took a shower then retired to his room and did a little homework.  The urge struck to read his Bible, but he resisted almost instantly.  The book seemed loaded now, more associated with demons and the Devil in his mind.  For the first time in his life, it didn’t seem a book of light and joy, just a tome of horror and pain.  It represented fresh misery, dirt and grit and body aches and bullies and violence and sadness and possession and voices and eternal Hell.  He hadn’t gone to Hell that day; he couldn’t understand why.  The Devil commanded.  God disappeared.   Jesus and Mary were powerless, yet he remained in his room, in his house, with his family.  Maybe he wasn’t going to Hell.  Maybe he wasn’t going to Heaven.  Maybe he really was Pontius Pilate and Judas and had killed Jesus and the hope for all mankind.  He looked at his digital clock.  Nearly 11 PM.  He wasn’t ready to go back to school.  He prayed for the numbers to go backwards, counted each second until the next minute came, hoping that he could be frozen in between forever, that time wouldn’t move forward and the next day would never come. 

                His mother poked her head in and asked how he felt.  He said he felt fine.  She asked if he wanted to stay home from school tomorrow.  He said no.  He didn’t want to go but he didn’t want to stay home.  He wanted time to stop forever.  She came into the room, kissed him good night, turned off the lights and left him alone.  He had always felt safe in the dark until that moment.  God had left him.  Satan coveted him.  Mankind demanded his death.  He dreamt of demons devouring his soul, of Satan delighting in their hunger. 

His alarm clock blared the next morning.  At first, it seemed like any other day.  The hope of life and its possibilities surged to Terry’s rested consciousness but quickly faded into complete exhaustion from the ravages of a fitful night’s sleep and the horrible memories of the previous day.  He saw a swirl like a vulture and felt its talons on his neck.  The nightmare sensation hung over him as he trudged to take a shower, eat his breakfast and weakly tell his doting mother, by herself as his father had already left for work, that he was okay.  He never wanted her to worry, now, even if he felt she should; he couldn’t properly understand or express what he felt, anyway.  She helped him put his heavy coat on, as usual, and he resisted the urge to tell her he could do it himself, as usual, because it obviously meant so much to her and she approached the simple task with such alacrity.  He couldn’t tell if the coat was protection from the darkness or a sealed coffin keeping it in.  The blizzard conditions the previous night had buried the landscape in white only creased on the roads by snow plows and his father’s rapid snow blowing of their short driveway that morning to free up his car.  Terry trudged to his bus stop, waited and embarked when it arrived, oblivious to the gum chomping bus driver, who, for once, looked upon him with a bit of concern.  She saw something different in him.  The tiny kid that climbed those steps every other time had that air of happiness, that light.  This time he seemed enveloped in a dark cloud.  She ground her gum as he walked down the aisle then put it out of her mind.  The other students were prepared for the usual, the knees and the shoving and the insults if their momentary forts were threatened by the little social leper but there was no need this time.  Like Daniel entering the lion’s den, Terry walked slowly, inevitably, irrevocably, to the back seat he occupied the previous day and sat, once more, alone, waiting for the Devil, the one he knew would surely come.  He wouldn’t be waiting long. 

Ten minutes after the beleaguered Terry had taken his seat, Billy Vargas, all six feet three of him at the not so tender age of 15, stomped up the bus steps for his first day at St. John Vianney, the odd start date due to his third and latest expulsion from different public schools over the last year, the first two times for thieving lunch money and beating up the students he took it from, the latest for assaulting a teacher, who magnanimously opted not to press charges if Billy kept his nose clean in the future.  Fed up with their son, his parents had dumped the completely non-religious Billy into a Catholic school in the hope that it would enforce enough discipline to keep him in line.  But Billy wasn’t in the mood to be kept in line.  Someone was going to get it because Billy’s Dad was angry that morning.   Billy’s Dad was grumpy every morning, but that morning had been particularly intense because he had been passed over for promotion at work; to Billy’s misfortune, the ill timing coincided with his own failure.  Each notice of his son’s failures triggered renewed shame and enmity in his father, a giant of a man at 6’5” and over 250 pounds, the only man Billy had fought and failed to physically dominate. 

Billy rose late that morning, as usual; as he prepared to walk out the front door on his way to his new school’s bus stop, his father, whom he’d hoped to avoid that morning, approached and hit him hard in the back of the head.  Billy seethed as he turned to face the man he’d grown to despise. 

“No, you’re not going to get out of here without seeing me,” his father spewed.  “What more do I have to do to knock some sense into your damned head?  What else do you need?” 

Like lightning, his huge right hand thundered into Billy’s midsection, doubling him over.  Billy gasped for breath, collected himself, stood up straight and met his father’s fiery stare with an icy one.  He didn’t live in terror at the thought of getting a beating anymore; his real rage came at being so easily abused so many times.  It used to make him desperately sad and powerless when younger and he’d cry himself to sleep in frustration.  He eventually learned to replace sadness with anger which spilled over into rage.  What he couldn’t do to his father he’d done to a few dozen others unfortunate enough to be in his path on a bad day.  That morning, his father’s violence had triggered his, putting all in Billy’s path that day in dire jeopardy. 

After being told to get out of his father’s sight, Billy left for the bus stop, his freakishly strong body stomping menacingly the whole way, resolved in his decision that someone that day would pay for his pain.  He’d come to enjoy dishing out punishment like a greatly developed torturer.  Terrorizing others had become fun.  A lot of fun; that morning, he lusted for it and it would come.  Maybe that morning, maybe during recess (whatever time the new school had it), maybe after school, but sometime.  Best case scenario, he would have a weakling to himself all day; in and out of class, easy at lunch, easier at recess, easiest after school.  A jagged, hard smile like a hungry sharks cracked his face.  Someone was going to get killed and he would enjoy every second of it.  Yeah, someone was going to get killed; all that mattered now was finding a victim.

                Billy paused at the front of the bus and scanned the faces before him.  The students on the bus, formed in their usual social groupings, chatted freely about things vitally important to school kids their ages; sometimes, hopeful boys seeking young love with nervous girls and vice versa; sometimes chats about sports or makeup or puberty or acne or what classes they hated or what teachers they hated more.  Other seats contained people who didn’t know each other or didn’t speak to each other or anyone else while on the bus, young people lost in thought, bored, playing superheroes in their imaginations, the growing intellectuals pondering life’s questions before they even had a chance to experience them and the few, ubiquitous, tragic outcasts.  Billy manifested as the most dangerous kind of bully because he wasn’t a coward deep down.  For his age, he loomed as a legitimate monster, a tough guy through and through that, though triggered irregularly, loved the role of the sadist.  He attacked, not because he felt a fearful need to hurt someone else, but because he felt the violent need to do so.   The only one in his life that could lick him was his father; everyone else at his level, even his teachers, either knowingly or unknowingly walked in peril. 

                The hungry lion, Billy looked over the gazelles on the bus like the carnivore he was.  Unbeknownst to them, their safety in numbers, even if only two, repelled the predator.  He’d gladly take them all on at once but that would quickly get him expelled yet again and back into the arms of the only animal in the grasslands bigger and more dangerous than him.  He wanted the easiest targets, the unprotected, the ones sitting alone, the softest and lightest, because they’d feel the most fear and no one would come to their aid.  Billy looked for the biggest loser of the murderous game of musical chairs, the virgin meat, the unluckiest one, the apex of vulnerability.  He took stock as he strode down the aisle, the students he passed recoiling from this Tyrannosaurs Rex whose giant head shifted back and forth like it searched for meat to rip to pieces.  Billy rapidly became frustrated.  Not one patsy sitting by himself.  Billy shook his head.  No victim on the bus but he had all day to plan and search and, if he kept his nose clean with the teachers, the rest of the school year to do the same.  Optimistic for his future of brutality, he headed for the one empty seat at the very back of the bus.  As he neared, he noticed something.  Oh, it was hair!  A head of hair!  Someone was in the seat, someone little.  His eyes lit up as he reached the seat and saw the softest, tiniest little virgin meat he’d ever seen.   Oh, it was his lucky day after all!  Smiling broadly, Billy Vargas slid into the seat like a serpent about to encircle and constrict a field mouse.  He said his full name as introduction.  He wanted his victim, his prey for now and the immediate future, to know and fear that name.  The little gnat murmured almost imperceptibly in reply: 

                “Hi.  My name is Terry.” 

               

Billy understood pain.  He knew how to administer it like a medieval executioner.  Today it might be the stock, or the rack, or worst of all, the disemboweling knife.  He always looked beyond insults; they were for amateurs.  He relished inflicting physical abuse.  Nothing else made him happy.  He analyzed the bus driver’s infrequent glances in her overhead mirror.  Billy had played a dozen different drivers at his young age, taking care to hide everything from the ones that cared and reveling in the freedom of action he felt from those that didn’t.   He’d never gotten in trouble on a bus for insidious actions; he was too clever for that.  He’d only been punished for the obvious stuff like punching a teacher, that more than deserved it in his mind, and stealing from the useless insects that couldn’t stop him.  He preyed in the shadows, the expert torturer, the serial killer that never got caught, the phantom that destroyed then vanished. 

                Terry wondered what had brought this giant, this Goliath he’d never seen, to him.  Was he human or another of Satan’s demons?  Was he really Goliath, sent by God to inflict the final punishment, the retribution for the murder of his only Son?  A monster to kill a monster?  Or was his inevitable death at Satan’s hands coming later that day in another form? 

                Billy didn’t know exactly how long it would take to reach his new school, so he had to work fast.

He slid his left arm down the top of the seat behind Terry’s head like he’d do on a date if Terry were a girl.  Not knowing what to think or do, Terry sat unafraid, prepared to accept his punishment if it came.  He couldn’t, wouldn’t, reject God’s plan for him, whether bringing His retribution or leaving it to Satan.  Terry just wanted it to happen quickly.  It did. 

“That’s a real tiny neck,” Billy said, looking at it and smiling.  “I bet I can snap it.”  His left hand dug underneath the collar of Terry’s coat and grabbed the tiny neck in a vice grip, his fingers squeezing deeply into Terry’s flesh.  Stunned and completely overpowered, Terry reflexively let out a gasp that sought air but instead retracted into his chest until it felt like his heart would explode.  The bus driver didn’t see this activity.  If she had, it would have been one of the very few times she’d get involved reporting it.  Only major fist fights and insults thrown her way typically triggered her to intervene in a situation.  She blew off non-violent bullying as unimportant.  Billy moved his mouth towards Terry’s right ear and whispered into it.

                “It’s time for your punishment, boy.  I’m the monster in your closet.”

                The comments had no deep significance for Billy.  He just wanted to scare Terry as much as possible.  For Terry, the comments were corroboration that this was Satan’s hand at God’s will.  Terror consumed him, just as Billy wanted though his resignation left Billy confused.  The little snowball wasn’t fighting, wasn’t struggling, wasn’t even moving.  His body limp, Terry’s eyes were closed like he was already dead.  Billy wanted, no, needed to see Terry’s fear.  He needed to feel Terry’s hysterical energy flow into his hand like he’d stuck his finger in a socket.  He needed that jolt, that sense of conquest at the destruction of another.  It was a big reason why he did what he did.  He needed some resistance to overcome, some life shown from the victim.  He needed the power. 

                Greatly unsatisfied with Terry’s limp response, Billy dug his fingernails, kept sharp for moments like these, into Terrys’ neck, drawing blood.  Too weak to cry out, Terry just cried, his tears stronger than his body.  Billy shoved Terry’s head down out of sight behind the seat in front.  Disgusted and uncertain what to do for a few moments, Billy hit Terry in the right cheek with his right hand, a quick jab meant to shut the little twerp up.  As Terry’s limp body began to slide to the floor, Billy hoisted him back into the seat by the neck and kept his head down until they arrived at school a few minutes later.  Billy waited until the students near him had left their seats.  Wedging Terry into the corner, he rose and left his, greatly wanting to give Terry a parting shot but repulsed by the bus driver’s gaze as she looked over the exiting students.  Billy wasn’t going to risk being seen pummeling something in the back seat of an otherwise empty bus.  Besides, he had all day to work on this patsy.  With a feeling of accomplishment bordering on the orgasmic, he confidently strolled down the aisle and out, winking at the bus driver on the way, his new school unwittingly in the crosshairs of fresh evil.  In the back, Terry Day dealt with another, even more insidious evil. 

                The faces came.  The first were discernible, the violently angry faces of men and women, adults and children.  Their voices came in roars and shouts and screams. 

                You killed our savior!  You’ve ruined our lives!  You’ve ruined our souls and our happiness!  You’re the worst person to ever live!  You piece of garbage!  You’ll go to Satan and Hell and your soul will burn!  We will have your soul as payment!  Evil Scum!  We will have your soul as restitution!  Justice has come for you!  Your day of judgment is here! 

                The faces multiplied to hundreds, thousands, millions, billions, then an infinite number.  The voices became of hundreds, thousands, millions, billions, then an infinite number.  They yelled and screamed like the anguished, agonized voices of victims in courtrooms confronting the murderers and rapists of family members.  Hundreds and thousands and millions and billions and infinite courtrooms with infinite anguish and infinite agonies.  They melded together exponentially into one immense roar, infinite words of the same type but spoken in different ways.  The infinite number of human beings he had destroyed by denying them the eternal happiness of Jesus Christ.  Infinite souls demanding that his evil, his eternal evil, be sacrificed to Hell in compensation for the destruction of Jesus’s eternal good.  Terry knew they were right.  He knew he was evil.  He would have no release.  His body shook.  He visualized his soul disappearing in a puff of smoke and going to Hell.  He would be raped and ravaged and slashed and cut up every second, every moment in Hell.  He rose with acceptance.  He was the worst evil to ever live.  He deserved it. 

After around two minutes, Terry felt a hand on his right shoulder.  It was the bus driver.

                “Come on.  We’re at school.  You need to get up and go,” the woman said with no gentleness or feeling, Terry’s neck wounds hidden by the collar of his coat which had ridden back up after Billy let him go.  Terry heard the Virgin, but she brought no love, no hope, no succor.  She told him he needed to go.  It was time to make his penance with the universe, everyone who ever lived and ever would live.  He would burn to save them all. 

                The Virgin led him stiffly by the arm to the front of the bus.  Using the hand rail, he moved down the steps like a dying man.  Physically, each voice, each roar, each scream, was a punch to his brain.  Each took something out of him until he couldn’t take it anymore.  Death seemed wonderful.  Hell seemed a paradise.  Anything to stop the pain, the infinite pain of others now transferred to him. 

After Terry disembarked, the bus driver followed, taking no notice of him as she walked towards the bus’s back tires and lit up a cigarette.  Adjacent buses spewed young people.  Terry read the student’s faces, saw their anger, their rage.  They, too, were tormented souls. 

Look at all of them.  They’re who you’ve murdered, came a voice that could only be God’s.  Make them see your evil.  Cower before their righteousness. 

They knew who he was, he was sure of it, knew he was Judas and Pilate, knew what they demanded of him, knew his destruction lay at hand.  The fingernail slashes on his neck burned.  Satan had grabbed him by the neck.   The demons clawed up inside him, their talons dripping with his blood.  They clawed up and ate at his brain.  Satan’s dark face and bulging eyes bore down on him.  It was time. 

                Head down, hands in his pockets, fighting exhaustion and collapse with each step, he turned away from the school building and shuffled to the street.  Jesus wouldn’t help him.  Mary wouldn’t help him.  He was the only soul in the history of the world that couldn’t be saved. 

                He reached the street, heard the din of cars moving without seeing.  The demons drooled with anticipation.  Satan opened his arms.  Without looking either way, Terry walked straight into the oncoming traffic.