It Wasn’t Fair

Nathan crept through the aisles of blue lockers, his mind wondering why he had to have PE the same period as ninety-percent of the jocks. Football players, basketball players, wrestlers, and practitioners of every other sport imaginable all there to pick-on, tease, and bully him. It wasn’t fair.

Nathan had never been the real athletic type. He wasn’t outgoing, or anything like that. He didn’t belong to any clubs, or special interest groups. For the most part Nathan kept to himself. He was an introvert. No real close friends, or friends at all for that matter.

It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with Nathan. He wasn’t an avid chess player, or horribly disfigured. He wasn’t geeky, dweeby, or nerdish. He just wasn’t very good at relating to people, so he related to himself, by himself.

He didn’t know why the jocks picked-on him. No one else really did. He just wasn’t like them, and they didn’t like that, was all he could figure. His first hour, his physical education hour, was the worst of the day, and being the first sat the pace for the rest. He lived in fear of being “accidentally” hit with stray basketballs, or “accidentally” slammed into during floor hockey. The “accidents” were the kinder attempts to ruin his existence. Most of the time it was taunts, constant threats, and the making good of those threats.

He crouched next to his dented pale-blue locker. It was scratched and dinged with years of use, and probably misuse. He spun the cover around on his lock and gave it a yank. It hesitated before releasing its grip like most school locks have a tendency to do. He had become accustomed to speedy dressing in the locker room. He was convinced if someone chased him from the gym to his locker, had him dress out, and chased him back to the gym with a stopwatch, he’d set records. On top of that he did it inconspicuously. Unfortunately he was rarely saved from locker room ridicule.

He hated for anyone to see his twiggy body while he dressed. So he changed clothes with such haste that superheroes in telephone booths would be envious. He had just finished pulling up his Wranglers when Joe Dandervan, star baseball player, appeared behind him. Joe had been so quiet during his approach that Nathan hadn’t noticed him.

It was widely known that Joe was a regular user of steroids, though there wasn’t anyone, who’d mention it to the faces of him or his friends. It was a quick way or get counter-productive dental work done. It was also widely known that Joe’s father was a good friend with the school’s superintendent, and in Nathan’s small community that meant a free do-as-you-please pass for Joe.

“Hey bitch.” Joe said into Nathan’s ear as he grabbed his shoulders.

“Oh hey Joe. What’s up?” Nathan said his voice cracked half way through, announcing his fear.

“Don’t ‘what’s up’ me homo. I heard what you’ve been saying about me.” Joe responded giving Nathan a slight push. Nathan stumbled forward nearly tripping on a dark-blue chipped wooden bench in the aisle.

“Joe we both know I haven’t said shit about you.” Nathan shouted, and then regretted raising his voice.

“Think you’re tough now or what? You ain’t shit.” Joe stuck his face within inches of Nathan’s.

“I know, and I’m not trying to be, but I haven’t said anything about you Joe.” Nathan replied mentally preparing himself for a beating.

“Whatever bitch, but we’ll get it straight later.” Joe said with a slight grin, and turned to walk away, veins bulging through muscles he had tensed moments earlier.

Asshole, Nathan thought to himself, walking back to his locker to finish dressing. That’s when he noticed the crowd that had gathered. They all smirked, and whispered amongst themselves. Assholes all of them, Nathan said inside his head as he pulled his plain white shirt on, and tied his generic brand shoes.

As would be expected, word of his imminent beating spread throughout the school within minutes. Nathan felt as though even the teachers knew, but wouldn’t do anything to help. A knot grew larger and larger in his stomach as the day pushed forward, and it pushed forward no matter how hard he tried to force it back.

Joe would kill him; Joe, over six feet tall and two hundred-twenty pounds of mostly muscle. He played football and baseball, being MVP of the latter. He had short spiky black hair with blond highlights, evenly tanned skin, and to top it off, the most arrogant attitude in school.

Nathan on the other hand was five foot, four inches and about a hundred-thirty pounds of mostly bones. He had shaggy dark-brown hair, with milky-white skin. One punch would be all it took. Nathan was dead.

Unless, Nathan thought to himself, unless I can get away from school before he gets me. Nathan left the lunchroom during lunch, and stayed in short proximity to any near-by teacher. When the day was over he darted off the campus, and ran half the way home. The rest of the walk was spent thinking about how long he would spend in a hospital bed. Joe wasn’t just messing around; he was going to hurt him. Nathan only lived a few blocks from the school, so it was a short walk, but he still managed long thoughts.

It was mid-spring, and the vegetation of his Californian town was in full bloom. He walked to a road that was really two one-way streets running parallel to one another with a strip of grass and trees between them. Alfax was its name, and it ran along some of the most beautiful blocks in town. Every house had a buzz-cut lime green lawn. Some had bushes, trees, or hedges. Mrs. Wellforn was a real stickler for privacy, he didn’t know how many time she had yelled “Mind your own business!” just cause he had casually glanced through her gate. He was convinced she stood in her yard all day waiting for people to look through her gate, so she could yell at them.

Back in his home Nathan sat on the edge of his bed staring at his shag brown carpet. He must have been gazing down at the floor for an hour or more, but it only felt like minutes. He just wanted to know why. Why must it be him this was happening to? He never hurt anybody. Why must he be getting hurt now? He just didn’t deserve it. It wasn’t fair.

Then a thought struck him. Maybe that was why this was happening to him now. He had never stood up for himself. He had never given the bullies a reason not to pick on him. He would change all that and he would do it that night.

He knew he could never stand against Joe in a one-on-one fight, but if his situation wasn’t fair then he didn’t have to fight that way. He spent the rest of the day putting his plans in order.

It was now roughly eleven o’clock, and he was ready. Nathan had seen Joe playing catch with a little kid at 614 Ellray Drive all the time, so he knew were Joe lived, and wasn’t too far away. He could walk.

He didn’t know a lot about Joe’s family, but he did know his parents were divorced, and Joe lived with his mother. He figured the kid was his brother, and probably the only other person living at the house.

He waited for twelve to roll around before sneaking into his family’s basement, were his father had his workshop set up. It was full of junk that no one but his dad could see any use in. However, the basement did hold some useful items. He didn’t dare turn the lights on, but he managed to make out the outline of the dusty old gun cabinet his dad had tucked away in the corner of the basement. He crept across piles of scrap wood, and slid passed old chipped workbenches. He didn’t know what kind of wood they were made out of, but it wasn’t anything of high quality. His tennis shoes made next to no noise as they half-walked and half-slid across the cold gray cement floor.

His dad hadn’t kept the cabinet locked since Nathan was twelve, so it was easy to get into. Inside was a small selection of handguns and hunting rifles. A Smith & Wesson whose caliber Nathan didn’t know. A shiny silver revolver, that reminded him of something sheriffs would hang from their hips in the old west. He would have loved to strap it on, administering old fashion justice, but in no way did that fit his plans. A handgun wouldn’t suit his purpose.

He switched his gaze from the shelf running across the top of the inside of the cabinet to the row of rifles lined up through the middle. They reminded him of pool cues in a mercenary bar. He knew more about the rifles then the handguns. He and his father would go outside of town some weekends and shoot prairie dogs with them. From right to left there was a .22 Smith & Wesson target rifle with a 10X power scope, a .308 Remington with another 10X scope, and a 12-gauge shotgun. He spent a few minutes trying to recall the manufacturer of the shotgun, but it stayed a butterfly hovering inches above the reach of his net, a cold, dull-black, and deadly butterfly. Then he realized it was of little consequence. It could have been made by elves in Santa’s workshop for all it should have mattered to him.

He pulled the .308 Remington from the foam fingers holding it in place, and propped it against the wall next to him. He then reached down and pulled open a drawer at the very bottom of the cabinet. He couldn’t see inside the drawer, so he stuck his hand in and dug around for the box he was looking for. His hand brushed over a box that was about three inches long, and he snatched it out. Holding it up in the dim light he read the words “Eagle .308 FMJ”. He would have preferred hollow-points, but full metal jacket would work fine.

He stuffed his weapon and a box of shells into a large black duffle bag he had brought down with him. He thought about just taking a few bullets from the box, but figured he might as well take them all. He wondered if he was really trying to fulfill an image of a gun-toting, arsenal strapping walking tank of whoop-ass like he saw on TV. After all it would really take only one bullet. Hopefully.

Creeping past his parent’s room he returned to his own. He wasted no time going straight to his window, and crawling out. His parent would never expect him to sneak out in the middle of the night, nor should they have. He had never given them a reason to.

Forty minutes later he was standing in an alley behind Joe Dandervan’s house. Clouds blotted all celestial bodies from the sky. In his black long sleeve shirt, black Dickies, and matching black cotton gloves he was transformed into a slender shadow. He looked down at his gloves. They were worn and fuzzy. He wanted leather like in the movies, but his mom’s winter gloves were all he could find. Scary hit man, he thought to himself as he placed his bag on top of an old beat-up shed. It looked like it hadn’t been used in years. It was strange to him that this decrepit shed nearing the end of its life would help him take someone else’s. He couldn’t blame it, if you’re gonna go down might as well take someone down with you.

He grasped the edge of the roof and began to pull himself up, the wood creaked for a second, and Nathan thought it would give way, but it held. After kicking his feet in the air for a few seconds he managed to swing a foot around to catch the edge of the shed’s roof, and roll on top. He glanced down at where the ground should have been, but darkness had consumed.

He pulled his weapon from its containment ready to set its rage free upon Joe Dandervan’s face. It had a dull black barrel with a rough texture, and a smooth wood body. Nathan couldn’t see it clearly in the murky depth of the moonless night. He knew how well his father had polished the fine redwood to a lustrous shine.

He belly crawled to the pinnacle of the slightly sloped roof. It would make a perfect sniper’s nest. He could set the gun on the side of the roof facing Joe’s house and lay on the other side of the peak. Once in position he clicked the black circular covers off each side of the scope, clacked open the V shaped legs of the built in tripod, and gazed intently at his target’s home. He hadn’t the slightest clue were Joe would be at, so he swept across the house. His grip tightened around the handle as sweat oozed from the pores in his hand before being sucked up by fuzzy black cotton.

He couldn’t believe he had come this far. No more then an hour earlier he had been sitting on his bed staring at the floor, scared for his life. Now he was taking a life into his own hands with concrete hardness about to crush it under his fingers, or more fittingly, finger. That thoroughly surprised him. All the doubt and uneasiness he had felt on the walk to Joe’s house now melted away to pure calm. He could feel it somewhere down inside him; he had changed.

A glimpse of soft yellow light jumped across Nathan’s new eye. He panned back to look into an empty room dimly lit with what seemed to be a child’s nightlight. It was Joe’s brother’s room most likely. Nathan thought the boy he saw playing ball with Joe would have been too old for such childish devices. He was ready to continue his search when the room’s door slid open. A figure squeezed through a purposefully small opening. It wasn’t Joe’s brother, it was Joe. Nathan figured Joe must have had a dimmer switch in his room, but the light was distinctly coming from the wall next to his bed.

He watched with unwavering focus as Joe downed a large glass of water and crawled into bed. The nightlight remained on. Joe Dandervan all-star baseball prodigy, and all American tough guy slept with a nightlight. He thought about the monster in Joe’s closet before laughing aloud on the shed’s roof. Then returned to his grim voyeurism,

The nightlight gave Nathan an even greater resolve, that plus the illuminated view made a dangerous mixture for Joe. How could someone still afraid of the dark, or afraid of something enough to need a nightlight at seventeen have the nerve to pick on him? He remembered Joe whispering “bitch” in his ear with the elegance of a retarded gorilla. A retarded gorilla, Nathan thought the description over and decided it fit well as his scope’s stare fell on Joe’s forehead.

Ten minutes must have passed before Nathan realized a daze had overtaken him. Time to get this done, he thought to himself. The true intensity of his approaching actions was creeping up on him. He didn’t fully it understand, but in a few seconds and a pound’s worth of pressure he would.

His eyes squinted as a shockwave rippled away from him, a messenger of evil who would scream in the ear of any who would listen, its only known word “KAPOW”. Nathan watched in hypnotized amazement as a large chunk of Joe’s face flew off the edge of the bed. The bullet had flown through the window, and smashed into the muscular jaw of Joe Dandervan centimeters to the left of his left eye. Nathan scanned the blood, which had sprayed across blankets and pillows. He noticed the crystalline lines of pointed blood pouring from the window’s wound.

He couldn’t move. This isn’t what he wanted. There was no sweet taste of justice served, only the rolling of stomach and taste of bile as it spilled forth from Nathan’s mouth and nose. His respiratory system seized with panic as his mind uselessly struggled to grasp this mistake. He had taken a life. Joe had never passed for a decent human being, but now he wouldn’t pass for a human being at all.

Then terror clamped onto his heart with the tenaciousness of a drowning child grasping at whatever it thinks can float, but his heart could not float and was being pulled down. What was this damning child’s name? It hit him in one word Consequence. The whole neighborhood had to have heard the shot. He had forgotten how loud the weapon was. No, not forgotten, neglected. How stupid could he be?

Then a deeper, darker, more meaningful fear grasped more then his heart, but his soul itself. This was no mere child. A word chimed from one side of his brain to the other and back again like a chorus of giant church bells, fittingly so for the word now penetrating his thought was God. He had never done anything he would consider evil in his entire life, but that had all just changed.

Still feeling ill he stuffed his forsaken instrument back in its holder, zipped it shut, and rolled off the shed. He took off running as fast as his legs could carry him away from what had happened. He thought in delirious hope maybe with speed and distance he could escape the crushingly heavy weight of his deeds. That’s when he heard it.

“Stop right there! Don’t move or I’ll shoot.” A bodiless voice called from the emptiness from beyond Nathan’s vision.

“Put your hands in the air!” A flashlight beam flooded across him, “Slowly!”

Nathan slowly stuck his hands in the air still holding the bag. Terror took control of every cell of his body. Well this is it, he thought, I’m going away for a long time. He had no idea how correct he was.

“Drop the bag.” The voice yelled out, it seemed to be owned by a large man.

Nathan hesitated with fear, and then illogical instinct took over. He started to through the bag down with as much speed as possible wanting to make a distraction so he could run. The loop fabric handle of the duffel bag caught his hand, and he brought his other hand down to set it free.

Nathan felt something hit his chest with tremendous, yet strangely painless, force. Then in what seemed to be an eternity later he heard the thunder roll across his body. It had been fractions of a second between the slug hitting him and the sound doing the same, but everything slowed down when the bullet struck.

The relatively small piece of lead plowed between two of his ribs, tore its way through his left lung, and then curved slightly before lodging itself contently in his spine. Nathan fell to the ground with a thud. Sounds came to him as if he was under twelve feet of water, and sinking deeper every second. His body was numb, but he could feel his inner workings like never before. His beating heart pulsed rhythmically, reassuringly in his ear, and he could feel the blood flow through his body. However, he didn’t feel it trickle from the edge of his mouth.

A simple word resurfaced in his head once more. God. He wanted to scream out his apologies, to beg on his knees for forgiveness. It was too late for all that, he just silently prayed inside his mind. He forced himself to focus even though he caught himself starting to trail off many times. It seemed his mind was fighting against him during his final attempt at repentance.

Please God, don’t hold this one lapse into evil forsake me. I have striven to live the best I could my entire life, and now in one swift jerk of my finger I have undone it all. Please God, find some way to forgive me for this.

With that his mind gave into the shock of his wound. Not long afterwards his soul relinquished itself into the darkness of the night. Leaving behind an empty shell that just minutes before felt more then slightly uncertain as to where he would find himself next. He had only tried to stick up for himself. It wasn’t fair.