IMAAN'S FIGHT & OTHER STORIES

CROSS ONE OFF

Jackson

My mother always told me to write down the names of people I liked, people who did something good for me, so I wouldn't forget their kindness. She said that one day, I would have the opportunity to help someone, and they would write my name down too, to remember me. She called it a badge of honor. The more good deeds I did and had my name written, the more I would be rewarded. Santa would always have me on his good list, or even better, they would erect a statue of me in the town square. I would be worshipped.

As I entered puberty, I started to realize that there weren't many good people out there. My book remained empty, with no names. People, especially kids, were jerks. I would spend a day at school and come home limping or with new bruises on my face, maybe even stitches from the nurse.

I hated it, and I would tell my mom about it, but she would just smile and say, "You'll meet good people tomorrow." I believed her. But tomorrow never came, and eventually, my mom had to leave because the Big Guy upstairs needed her for something.

At her funeral, I remember the sun shining brightly, just like my mother's smile. Birds happily flew from tree to tree as the priest spoke about the gates of heaven. The priest said the verse "from dust to dust" as my mom's casket was lowered into the ground. I said my final goodbye.

After that, I moved in with my aunt and started high school. It was tough, and I barely made it through. The kids were as mean as ever, and as they grew older, their cruelty intensified. Hell opened up for me when I got caught kissing another boy in the restroom.

It was a cruel prank I fell for after confessing my true feelings to him. The response was jeers, punches, and kicks from other boys. They even threw snot at me and pulled my hair. Tired of physically hurting me, they forced me to wear a dress they took from one of the girls.

That wasn't humiliating enough, I had to walk through the hallway with a plaque hanging around my neck that read "I have the faggot disease." The adults watched, doing nothing. To this day, the echoes of laughter still haunt my mind, reminding me of that day. But what I remember most is him, Asper Cullinane.

He was the only person I had ever written in my good book. He was the one I shared my first kiss with, the one who held my hand and called my differently colored eyes beautiful. He told me I was special to have one blue and one green eye.

He made me feel secure about myself, only to tear me down. To him, I was just a game, a bet he made with his friends. When our eyes met, I wanted him to smile and tell me everything would be okay. I wanted him to tell his friends to stop hurting me, or even join in on my humiliation because we had kissed.

He initiated the kiss.

I wanted him to protect me because I wasn't as strong as him. Instead, he snorted, spat at me, and then said,

"I'm not a fag like you. I will never be a fag. I just like messing with you." That was what broke me.

My mom was wrong; there are no good people.

Now, at twenty-five, not much is happening in my life. I spend my time gaming and drawing for comic books. It doesn't pay much, but at least I can buy cool toys with the money I earn.

Toys that I can finally put to good use. As I sit and reflect, the sound of the doorbell interrupts my thoughts. I am no longer walking down the school hallway, being laughed at.

I am now seated in a fancy living room, on an expensive ivory leather seat, absentmindedly cleaning dirt from under my fingernails with a dagger. I'm not sure how long I've been at it, but my fingers are bleeding from the assault.