Evan, on the other hand, decided to take the bitch way out, and bent down to pick up one of the jagged gray rocks that littered the dirt floor of the trail. He winged it at me, and it nailed me in the forehead. The force of the blow was more than I had anticipated, and it knocked me to the ground. I felt warm blood drip down my face and I had a sick feeling that this wasn’t going to be the end of it. I looked up to see Evan grinning, as though the cheap-shot had made him more of a man than me.
“Is that all you got Crater-Face?”
His crater-face sank and I realized that I had just sealed my own fate. Evan bent down to pick up another rock and threw it as hard as he could. It whacked against my cheek this time, and I heard him yell, “Kill this faggot!” as a rally for his friends to join in the festivities.
I curled up in fetal position on the floral path as they wailed on me. The earth dug into my flesh and sliced through every exposed pore on my body, soon followed by the bludgeoning of boots against my sides and the taste of rubber soles. I don’t quite know when it stopped, but I remember wishing that Evan knew what it felt like to be in my shoes- or rather, what it felt like to be on the other end of his own. I wanted, even for a second, for him to know what it felt like to have everyone around him literally casting stones because of something that he couldn’t control. To hate and to judge him for something so superficial- something that, truthfully, only made him a little different from everyone else.
But apparently, Evan knew exactly what that felt like, because exactly three months later he blew his brains out in the confessional at St. Michael’s.