It takes only a single sentence in the newspaper to put your life into perspective.
The obituary barely mentions him. The impersonal information of where he went to school and where he was from changed him from a human being to a section filling the paper. Just to read his name brought me to the blood red soil of my backyard earthworks and my wooden Civil War rifle. Those hot Georgia days rushed back with every memory of my pain and suffering, along with the one memory I tried for years to forget. The memory of my elaborate plan to kill Trent Davis.
My childhood home was in a cul-de-sac bordering a Civil War battlefield. Being a ten year old boy living so close to history nurtured a deep obsession with the war. I would wear a blue kepi everywhere I went, automatically putting a target on my nerdy little head. By fourth grade, many of my neighbors accepted my passion, even called me "soldier." Everyone, except the older boy from the brown brick house on the end of Thornapple Lane.
Trent Davis was two years older than me, living only three houses down. His gothlic t-shirts and greasy brown hair terrorized the helpless souls playing in their front yards. His best friend Luke, a lanky buzzcut-headed military brat, followed him around to control the street. Luke's neighbor on the right was my best friend Philip, while on the left was a scaredy-cat named Aaron who never left his house. Trent hounded Aaron down with an airsoft gun on his bike while screaming "let's see how fast the fag can run!", shooting him until he cried, his nose bleeding. When Philip and I ran over to his rescue, Trent shot us as well, kicking us in the head while we tried to fight back. That was the last time Aaron left his house.
It only took a few more beatings for Philip and I to stay in my yard, enjoying the trenches. My many invisible comrades waited for us as we grabbed our weapons and haversacks off the back porch, wiping away the evidence of our pb&j lunch.
"Good to see you again, boys!" I cheered as Philip and I darted through the woods. The trenches snaked through the wilderness, paralleling a creek. The creek connected with a large sewage tunnel, slithering down into a pond at the bottom of Trent's backyard.
Philip and I went fishing on a Saturday afternoon back by that pond. As we looped our bait through our hooks, Trent ran out and shoved us both into the pond. While we scrambled to get up on our feet, he took both our tackle boxes in each hand and chucked them into the water. They sank in a few guggles, enraging me to my feet.
"What was that for?!" I challenged him as he smirked at us.
"You're in my yard. This is my pond."
"This whole thing is NOT yours!" Philip backed me up as he trudged out of the water "We can fish here, too!"
"Well I said no, so get off my property!" Trent said.
"Make me!" I spat back at him, shoving him in the chest.
"Why you fuckin' little-" Trent mumbled as he socked me in the face, pulleming me to the ground. I kept my arms swinging, trying to put up a good defense.
"Get off him! Get off him!" Philip pushed Trent away, helping me to my feet. Blood dripped from a fresh cut on my lip, and I felt my eye begin to throb.
"I catch you over here again, I swear to God I'm gonna kill you both!" Trent warned. Philip and I glared at him, picking up our fishing poles to return home. I began to feel a sharp pain in my side. Trent's fist fit perfectly into my ribs.
"Hey man, I think we better away from that pond." Philip said as we climbed back into my yard, "That's bad news over there."
"Yeah," I said "That's now designated enemy territory."
