The Damned Kid

As an old man I can at least tell that what I saw I'll never see again. These aging eyes just lose more in sight every day, and my memory isn't so good for the recent events. Days go by in a blurring whirlwind that melds everything into a bunch of incoherent events. I am lucky to remember my lunch after I've eaten it. These days I can't remember much, but the days in the past are seared into me. Leaving scars of things I cannot forget no matter what I wish for. Of these is the kid; the god damned child that nobody should have hurt. and the hell he brought to us all. It's hard to sleep at night without thinking of the kid, without dreaming of the kid, without fear of the kid.

It must have been 45 or so years ago when I met the kid. Everybody called him the kid. Jeffery Kidd, the quietest teenager to do some of the craziest things anyone saw in town. He was an A student, but would steal booze to drink at the drainage ditch without second thought. He never said a word unless it was important to say it. He'd get into fights, but fight for a woman's honor, fight to defend a helpless kid. His fists would stay down if it was his honor, he'd just walk away. "I'm worthless." was a saying he had, although it was rarely said. Jeff was a good guy, a crazy, quiet, honorable guy. The kid was practically a quiet hero of high school.

We were all around 15 or 16 when shit started going south. Jeff pretty much stopped talking for over a month. He refused to hang out and refused to get booze. His strong demeanor seemed gone. his stern face was filled with sunken features and a pale complexion. He stopped talking with girls, stopped defending the bullied kids, and quit being seen outside of class. Rumors were that he stabbed a kid and was almost sent to jail. I got worried so I visited his house.

The cheerful looking home almost seemed as a mockery of how the kid looked. He was home alone when I stopped by. "Is it alright if I chat, man?" was all I could say when I saw his gaunt features. He was nearly half a foot taller than I at the time, but he looked like hadn't eaten in days. I must have had 30 pounds on the kid. He looked like the geeks that he defended in the tank top he had on. His black hair was a mess; he looked like James Dean met Edgar Allan Poe. All I got was a nod indicating a yes.

Inside I asked about the sudden change and if the rumors about the stabbing were true. He nodded a a slow yes. I stood up out of my chair and asked what caused it. "He called me a faggot." Jeff said in a soft, stern tone. I yelled at him, upset that Jeff would do so much harm over petty words. "Why do that man!? I thought you said were worthless! You always defended others! why start now!" I shouted. The kid, the crazy tough guy, the defender of the weak, was crying in front of me. "Coach Ryan...", he sobbed into his hands, "...fucked me." He sunk into his chair , face into his palms and wept.

Jeffery Kidd never liked gym class. He never liked showering with the other kids, and we understood that. Coach Ryan never understood anything past attempting to make football players out of every young man he taught. Jeff never liked him.

Jeff told me that after class he was held back to talk with coach, thinking it was coach about to make him do 20 push ups for not showering after class, he went into his office. He told me about the gun Coach Ryan had, a revolver, and how it was pointed at him. How the coach forced him into the shower and strip; how Coach raped him. In the five years I knew the kid, he never talked so much as he did in that chair.

I was speechless at the shock of it all. Tears were running down his face, his pale features were a bright red, his eyes a pinkish hue. I'll never forget those eyes. I tried to assure him we'd make it right, we'd get coach for it.

Telling Jeffery's parents did more harm than good. His father called him a faggot, his mother merely wept. The coach was still teaching after a month when I got the news. The kid killed himself.

I found out the details from the circle of friends. It was a small town so cops kids were bound to tell what they in turn heard. The kid, Jeffery Kidd, slit his wrists in the bathtub. On the wall was the words written in his own blood:

I AM WORTHLESS

I felt terrible. I let my friend down; I let him die. We all had school off for three days to lets us kids grieve. We'd return to a memorial at school for him. I wept for three days for what happened. He fought so hard for kids like me, and had no one to run to when he needed it. I caused more pain by telling his parent, and now my friends was gone, because of me.

Those three long days went. The memorial was at the auditorium. Flowers were hung up around a picture of Jeff was there, front and center. First his parents talked about him. Some bullshit about how a troubled youth needs someone to turn to and they wished Jeff would've gone to them. I felt sincere anger towards that lie. My fists clenched from hearing all this.

What happened next I could never forget. Even today, at my old age, I'll never lose this memory. Coach Ryan walked to the podium and was about to talk, when he made this guttural choking sound. Almost like a gag. He started grabbing his throat violently and coughing the word "no". It was then his head separated from his body. It made a terrible ripping sound, almost like tearing denim, but with a wet sloshing sound going with it. Blood spurted everywhere. All of us started running and screaming in blind panic. Mr. Kidd, Jeffery's father, was next. A cracking sound was heard just before he hunched over to expel a lot of blood and what appeared to be his heart before falling over dead. I was in shock. I couldn't look away in sheer terror of what I was seeing. Some unknown force was killing Jeff's tormentors. His mother was last. A loud screech belched from her lungs as her dress was stained with her own blood. I couldn't see what was done to her in the panic, but she lurched over dead in seconds.

There was the kid's photo, surrounded by flowers. I saw in blood one word was written:

WORTHLESS

The incident was written off as an accident. During summer break the school burned down. The fire started in the gym. I still think that the kid did it.

I still fear that the kid, the damned kid, is after me. I feel guilt for what happened. Even at my old age, I fear death. Maybe the kid is there, waiting for me.