Even bullies know when they are taking it too far. For some they carry on regardless – having too much fun to worry about the consequences. This was Mason Blair’s way of thinking. He knew that he had overstepped the mark with Nick Burbank, but he’d be damned if he was going to step back now; there were too many people watching.
“Come on, you freak!” Mason shouted. He swept his black hair back, tensing his bicep when he remembered he was being watched. The tight, white t-shirt he wore rippled as he flexed his pectoral muscles. His green eyes were wide and his nostrils flared with hatred as he pushed Nick back up against the wall.
Nick’s head was down and shoulders slumped; his red hair, parted down the middle, had fallen forward, but his ginger curtains could not block out the reality of what was happening. His thin frame was trembling under his baggy black t-shirt. He was used to his bi-weekly run-ins with Mason, but this was worse than usual and he was praying for Mason to lose interest and leave.
“Wha’s th’ matta? Cat gotcha tongue?” Mason shoved Nick again after this comment, which was one of Mason’s favourites.
“Good one, mase.” Billy Peterson, one of Mason’s sidekicks, stood a couple of yards away, laughing as if it was the first time he had heard this remark. His whole face wobbled as he laughed; the many folds under his chin swinging as his head rocked. His polo shirt was pulled so tight across his huge stomach that it pulled up at the bottom, exposing masses of thick, dark hair.
Almost totally consumed by Billy’s huge shadow was Ryan White. Ryan always stayed at the back. Occasionally he yelled out remarks, encouraging Mason, but mostly he huddled behind Billy. At 5 foot Ryan had not got the height or presence to be intimidating, but he made a great ass-kisser. Most of the actions of Mason and Billy sickened Ryan, but while they were focusing all their attention on someone else – like Nick Burbank – and he kept kissing their asses, then his rodent-like features were safe from a beating.
“This is yer last chance, ya ginger freak. Do what I say or you’re gonna hurt like you never hurt before.” Mason reached to the back pocket of his black jeans and pulled a switchblade knife out. The click of the blade’s release made Nick look up. His eyes widened as Mason rolled the black handle between his thumb and forefinger.
“Hey, man, what’re you doing?” Billy asked, his eyebrows raised as if he was unable to comprehend what was happening. “Put that thing away, huh?”
“Shut up!” Mason glared at him. Billy’s raised eyebrows lowered into a frown but he didn’t say another word. Ryan peered out from behind him but ducked back when he saw Mason’s face. Mason turned back to Nick.
“Wh-what are you going to do?” Nick stammered.
“I might try’n scrap some of them freckles off yer face…” Mason pushed the flat side of the blade on to Nick’s left cheek, about an inch under his eye, and leaned forward so their noses were nearly touching, “or I
might pop your eye out. I ‘aven’t decided yet.” Mason pointed to the ground to the right of him
without looking away from Nick. “But if you’re a good boy ‘n’ do as you’re told, if you get down there on
your ‘ands and knees, tek a big chunk o’ that dog shit, put it in yer mouth, and start chewin’, we’ll go.
We’ll leave you alone.”
Nick was frozen to the spot, unsure what to do – call a bully’s bluff or eat some shit. Tough call. He felt a
tear roll down his cheek. Mason flicked it away with his knife.
“I – I don’t…” Nick couldn’t get his words out.
“Spit it out!” Mason was losing his patience fast, “you’re runnin’ outta time, dick’ead.”
Nick moved his eyes to the ground and stared at his next meal. He closed eyes fast. “Ok,” he whispered
“Good boy.” Mason smiled, he knew Nick would break eventually. He wouldn’t dare to call Mason’s bluff. That’s why Mason loved to pick on Nick; he was such a pushover. Mason stepped back to give him room with his task.
Nick kept his eyes closed as he slid down the wall. Mason stood over Nick and watched as he dropped to his knees and fell forward on to his hands. He crawled forward slowly – his eyes open now – and reached out with his left hand to grab his prize. The consistency of the dump was deceiving and two other lumps clung to the one Nick had chosen. He picked one of them and threw it on to the pavement, where it splattered like an over-ripe tomato, then began work on removing the other, which was attached by a few hairs and took a few tugs to free it. “Now put it in yer mouth,” Mason said, “an’ chew.”
Nick closed his eyes again, tighter than before, and brought his hand up, opened his mouth and bit the chunk in two, leaving a brown mark on his lower lip which made Mason smile. “All of it,” he said and pointed to Nick’s hand, “ya won’t get puddin’ if ya don’t eat yer meal.”
Nick didn’t try to argue. He opened his mouth again, the sloppy remains of the first bite still on his tongue, tossed the other half in and chewed quickly
Mason could see what was coming and stepped back. Nick vomited on the pavement. Cheerios for breakfast, pizza slice for lunch, dog shit for dinner. Nick lifted his head and looked at Mason.
“Happy now?” He grinned, showing his shit covered teeth; his eyes were wide and vacant.
“Ya didn’t finish,” Mason said.
“C’mon Mase, he did what you said,” Billy said to the back of Mason’s head
“Who asked you?” He replied, without turning round.
Nick was still staring at him and grinning.
“What’re ya grinnin’ at, freak?”
“Tough guy now, huh?” He stepped forward and dropped to his knee, grabbed Nick’s hair and pulled his head back. Nick still had the vacant smile on his face. “I’ll soon wipe that smile off yer face.” The sun caught the blade of Mason’s knife as he lifted it to Nick’s neck.
“Mase, there’s someone comin,” Billy said and tugged at Mason’s arm. Mason swore and loosened his grip on Nick’s hair, then, as if he had remembered something important, grabbed hold of him even harder.
“I’ll see ya soon, ginge,” Mason said. “Real soon.” As he rose, he pushed Nick who fell backwards and banged his head on the wall. “C’me on, you guys.”
As they ran away, Mason glanced back and saw that Nick was still grinning as an old couple helped him to his feet.
It had been two weeks since Mason had last seen Nick Burbank and Mason, Billy and Ryan were spending their usual early evening drinking and getting stoned at Thornton Force – one of several waterfalls on the Ingleton trail. They could come here without being disturbed; none of the villagers came out here and at this time of evening in spring, they knew there would be no chance of bumping into any hikers, either.
The sun was beginning to fall and was turning slightly orange, giving everything a warm glow. The trees at the top of the fall grew right to edge of the sheer rock face that surrounded the River Twiss and picnic area below. This horseshoe shaped rock face was divided in the middle by the cascading water – white with froth from its journey through the jagged rocks above – that crashed onto the limestone rocks just under the water’s surface.
There had been a rumour that Nick had been shipped off to a mental asylum but Mason didn’t believe that. He didn’t want to believe it. Any fool could see that kid wasn’t crazy. But there had been something strange about the way he had been acting the last time they met – that grin; his wild, vacant eyes – there was something not right.
Maybe I’m not pushin’ ‘im far enough, Mason thought to himself as he skimmed another stone over the still water. Nah, don’t be stupid! You med ’im eat dog crap, ‘ow much further can ya push ‘im? Billy and Ryan were lying on the rocks behind him, too wasted to move. Mason looked at them with disgust. Why’d I ‘ave t’ get stuck with them two: a tub o’ lard who gets outta breath jus’ talking about exercise ‘n’ a skinny nerd that only ‘angs out with me so I don’t kick ‘is ass. He grunted slightly as he threw another stone; his anger making him throw it so hard that it didn’t skim the water – didn’t even touch the water, in fact – and hit the back of the waterfall.
Something moved in the trees, catching his eye. He shielded his eyes from the glare of the dying sun as he looked up and saw Nick Burbank moving slowly through the foliage above.
“well, well, speaka the devil” Mason said. He turned round and scoured the ground at his feet for something to throw at the other two; he didn’t want to call them and ruin the element of surprise. He found a small stick and hurled it, it bounced off Billy’s chest and landed on Ryan’s face: Huh, couldn’t do that again if I tried, he thought.
“Hey, what the…” Billy started to say.
“Shut up, dummy!” Billy hissed. Without turning round he pointed to where Nick was.
“Is that Burbank?” Ryan asked.
“Yeah. Grab some rocks. Th’ bigga th’ betta, but make sure ya can reach th’ trees with ‘em. Quickly and quietly.” Using the fronts of their shirts to hold the missiles, the three of them armed themselves with several rocks and then stood looking up at where Nick Burbank was still moving through the trees, blissfully unaware of what was happening below him, concentrating hard on where he was putting his feet.
Mason was the first to throw his rock, smashing it into the tree just behind Nick. Mason and Nick’s eyes met and even with the great distance between them Mason saw the fear that he loved. Then it was gone; replaced with that smirk that he had had on his face the last time they met. “Little bastard,” Mason muttered, then said aloud: “right, let ‘im ‘ave it, lads.”
All three of them started to laugh and shout as they hurled their rocks at Nick who was covering his face with his arms and stumbling forward blindly. Billy hit him on the knee making Nick scream out and drop to the ground, rubbing where he was hit with both hands. But they didn’t stop.
They had used all the rocks that they had collected and were know grabbing them from the ground one at a time. Nick pulled himself up using a low branch and, putting all the weight on his good leg and covering his face again with his arms, turned to go farther in to the trees.
Mason saw that he might lose his target at any moment and threw the rock he was holding with all his strength. There was a loud thud followed by a low moan that turned into a high-pitched scream, and then it stopped.
The crash of the water on the rocks was the only sound to be heard as the three twenty year olds looked up to where that terrible sound had come form. Billy dropped the rock he was holding; Ryan’s mouth and eyes seemed to be having a competition to see which could open the widest; even Mason’s face showed a little of the worry that he would never have admitted he felt.
Then they saw him. Nick was waving his arms in front of him wildly; the blood running down the front of his face had blinded him.
Ryan gasped and took a step back but could not take his eyes off this red-faced person that had emerged form the trees.
Nick’s mouth was moving, but no sound could be heard from where the three stood.
“Hey, you OK?” Mason looked at Ryan, who had asked this, and thought, What a stupid question. Does he look OK? Nick obviously thought it was a stupid question, too, and didn’t answer.
“He’s getting a bit to close to the edge, don’t ya think?” Billy asked. “Don’t go any further Nick. You’re getting really close to the edge,” he shouted.
Nick kept on stumbling blindly, either not hearing the warning or not believing it. Billy and Ryan were both shouting warnings now. Mason stood watching with a blank look on his face.
Finally Nick seemed to acknowledge the warnings and stopped. He was still staggering slightly so he grabbed a branch and leaned on it. Billy and Ryan both exhaled deeply – as if they had been holding their breath – looked at each other and raised their eyebrows.
A loud crack made them look back up and they saw the branch that Nick had been leaning on had snapped and Nick was flailing wildly again, but this time the weight he had been putting on the tree’s dead limb carried him forward and he had no chance to stop before he reached the edge. Then everything seemed to happen in slow motion: Nick falling; his arms and legs still moving, trying to find ground; Billy and Ryan’s duet of “nnnooooooooooo” (Ryan even had his arms stretched out, as if he was trying to catch him); and finally the landing.
All the time he was falling, Nick didn’t make a sound, but the sound of his body crashing on to the rocks was a sound that would not be forgotten by any who heard it. There was a loud snapping sound – like someone eating crabs claw – as his head smashed on the rocks. This was immediately followed by a noise similar to that of a giant water balloon exploding as his body hit the limestone just under water’s surface.
Mason, Billy and Ryan didn’t move for what seemed to Mason like about twenty minutes. Mason started to move towards the waters edge.
Mason had only ever seen a dead body on TV before. As he waded across to the bloody mess that was Nick Burbank he felt his stomach tense. Nick’s left arm was bent under his body at an unnatural angle, while his right seemed to have a new elbow, half way down his forearm. His legs were spread open, and both were bent at the knees, as if he was doing squats. His clothes were soaked through with blood, which had now started to pool around him in the water, like a red oil slick, and had turned the pointy, light coloured rock Nick’s head had landed on a dark maroon. Mason could see little white and pink lumps on this rock, as he got closer he realised that they could be pieces of skull and brain, and closed his eyes.
Mason knew he needed to check for a pulse but didn’t want to touch that arm that was bent like a triangle and he couldn’t get to the other one so that only left his neck.
Mason tried not to look at Nick’s face but couldn’t stop himself. His face was covered in blood. One of his eyes had been dislodged from the socket and was protruding, only being held in place by his eyelids, which accentuated the already strong look of shock on Nick’s face. As Mason’s eyes rose to the top of Nick’s head he confirmed his assumption about what the little pink and white pieces on the rock were; Nick’s ginger hair was now a dark colour on the top of his head and through this matted mess Mason could see a hole about the size of a plum in his skull and looked away quickly. He knew that it really wasn’t worth checking his pulse but did anyway.
As Mason withdrew his hand he caught sight of Nick’s open mouth, he gasped and had to put a hand behind him to stop from falling backwards. It wasn’t the fact that most of Nick’s teeth were broken that had shocked Mason, it was the shape of his mouth; drawn back into that twisted grin, laughing at Mason from the mattress of red limestone.
“Is he…dead?” Mason hardly heard the last word of Ryan’s question, but knew what he was asking so he didn’t answer, instead he splashed back toward land, trying not show the others how scared he really was.
“We’d better go,” he said.
Billy and Ryan looked at each other.
“We just gonna leave him here?” Billy asked.
“You wanna carry ‘im?”
Billy looked at the ground and shook his head.
“Right! Let’s go!” Mason pushed past Billy and headed towards the car park. He didn’t look back, as much as he wanted to, but could still picture Nick: the strange mixture of fear and delight, that made him look like he knew something no one else did, was now forever etched on to his face.
They sat in the living room of Mason’s council house with the curtains drawn and the light on for just over an hour deciding on their story. Mason did all of the talking and, even when asking a question, did not listen to anything Billy or Ryan had to say. He decided that it would be for the best not to say that they hadn’t been there – there was too much evidence that they had – but that they had gone there, had a few drinks, and then came back to Mason’s house to watch a film, and at no point did they see Nick Burbank, dead or alive.
After making sure that the other two knew what they had to say if they were ever questioned by anyone, Mason said he was going to take a shower and sent Ryan to the local shop to get some lager and snacks.
Ryan was back from the shop and sat on the couch, clinging on to a can, when Mason came back downstairs after washing himself and changing his clothes.
“Let’s stick a film on, I need t’ tek me mind off things fer a bit,” he said as he collapsed into the tobacco stained armchair.
Mason awoke as the final credits were rolling for “The terminator” and realised that he had been asleep for most of it.
“Oh, man!” he said, switching the DVD off and stretching his arms out, “I ‘ardly saw any…”
He stopped as he realised he was explaining himself to an empty room.
He got up and looked around. “Billy? Ryan?” No answer. The room was much darker now but flashes of light from the TV gave off enough light for Mason to get to the light switch without falling over anything
Billy’s can of lager was on the table next to the sofa. Mason picked it up – it was still half full. He felt the sofa – it was still warm. “BILLY? RYAN?” Still no answer. He saw a dark spot on the carpet and touched it with his fingertips, it was wet, he rubbed his fingertips together as he looked at them, then sniffed them. Doesn’t smell like lager, he thought, one of ‘em must‘ve knocked a glass o’ water over.
He walked to the door and looked in the kitchen, but there was no-one there. Cheeky bastards must’ve gone t’bed. As he walked to the foot of the stairs he noticed that the hallway carpet was wet as well. Jeez, did Ryan piss ‘imself, or what? He laughed to himself.
Holding onto the banister, he climbed the stairs, avoiding the items of clothes that had been there for as long as he could remember.
“I ‘ope you two sweet’earts are comfy?” he said as he approached the door to the spare room. He swung it open without knocking and switched the light on but the bed was empty, he couldn’t tell if it had been slept in because it was always messy.
“You know you ain’t s’pposed t’ go in their room,” he said angrily, pushing open his parents’ bedroom door, but this room was empty ,too. “Someone’s gonna get hurt if you bastards are in my bed.” He stormed across the landing to his bedroom and barged through the door. The Main light did not work in Mason’s room so he could not see if there was anyone in the bed or not, but as he approached it he saw a lump under the covers. He quickly glanced around the floor and picked up the charger for his mobile phone, and, with a huge swing, hit the lump under the sheets with the plug end. The lump was too soft to be human and, after uncovering it, Mason saw it was just his pillows.
“What the…” He said through gritted teeth. “I ‘ope you two‘re ‘aving a good laugh ‘cause when I get ‘old of ya I guarantee you won’t be smilin’.”
He threw the charger onto the bed and charged out of the room, kicked open the bathroom door and saw a face with wild eyes staring back at him, he drew his fist back, ready to strike, but so did the person in the bathroom. Mason stared at his reflection for a few seconds before he realised and cursed under his breath.
After searching the bedrooms one more time, just to make sure, Mason was satisfied that they weren’t hiding anywhere. They must have waited for him to fall asleep and then made a quick getaway. He was angry with them for leaving the house after he told them to not to; with himself for falling asleep; with Nick Burbank for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
He slid his hand down the banister as he descended the stairs. After a few steps he realised his hand was wet, he wiped his fingers on his trouser leg and looked at spot where his hand had been. The whole length of the banister had spots of water on top of it, as if recently wiped with a very wet cloth. What’s goin’ on in this place, he thought, then jogged down the few remaining stairs.
The hallway carpet was now much wetter than before. He walked quickly to the kitchen, making a squelching noise with each step he took, and stepped over the rubbish that had spilled from the overflowing bin to get to the fridge. They better not’ve taken all the lager with ‘em, he thought as the automatic light illuminated the contents of the fridge.
He held on to the fridge door as he took in what he saw: a half empty bottle of milk that had gone off; a takeaway container from two nights ago containing half a chicken chow mein; a plate with some unidentifiable brown and white goo on it; and – with two cans of lager either side – Ryan’s head. The severed head stared with wide eyes at Mason. Ryan’s mouth was open and his tongue had been cut out. Blood and bits of tissue fell from the neck, which was rested on the wire shelf, and was pooling on the floor of the fridge.
Mason started to walk backwards, unable to break eye contact with his dead friend, and stepped on an empty beer bottle, which rolled under his foot and brought Mason crashing to the ground. He scrambled in the rubbish on the floor trying to get his footing, grabbed onto the corner of the work-surface and pulled himself up.
He ran out of the kitchen and into the living room, where the phone was. He had never called the police before, but then again he’d never found a head in his fridge before, either.
He reached to the right of the doorway, still walking fast, and switched on the light.
He stopped dead.
Billy was sat on the couch. His head was still attached, at least, and his eyes were closed, and his mouth open, but Mason thought nothing of this because Billy always slept with his mouth open and took a step forward. He immediately took two steps back when he looked at Billy’s abdomen and realised he wasn’t sleeping. Billy’s shirt had been lifted up and was resting on his protruding stomach just above the gaping wound that had emptied his innards onto his lap. Coils of intestines sat on his thighs like a string of sausages.
Mason stepped forward. He was still convinced that this was all a practical joke because this sort of thing doesn’t happen in real life; not in Ingleton; not to Mason Blair; not in his own house. The room suddenly went dark and Mason spun around, expecting to see Ryan there, grinning from ear to ear at having got one over on Mason, but the doorway was empty.
“Who’s there?” he called into the shadows. “I’m warnin’ ya, I’ve gotta knife.” He reached into his back pocket for his switchblade but there was nothing there. Mason’s eyes widened as he patted the other pockets and still couldn’t find his beloved knife, then he remembered he had taken a shower and changed his clothes. His knife must still be in his other trousers upstairs.
Something caught his eye in the corner of the room. He jerked his head round but saw only the light from the TV dancing on the wall and the coat-rack in the corner. The coats on the rack seemed to be swaying but there was no draught in the room. Then it spoke.
“What’s the matter, Mason? You normally have so much to say.”
Mason gasped. “Wh – who’s there? Wha’ d’ya want?” He knew the voice – but from where?
“Ha. I have dreamed about what it would be like to hear the great Mason Blair scared,” the voice said.
“You’d betta get away while ya can. D’ya know who I am?” Mason was trying to cover the fear in his voice but could not suppress it completely.
“Yeah, I know who you are. You’re a chicken-shit bully who deserves everything that’s coming to him.”
Mason made a dash for the door, determined to get upstairs and find his knife. He’d soon show this psycho who he was messing with. He was within two strides of reaching the hallway when he was suddenly thrown backwards onto the couch, his head slammed backwards into Billy’s intestines and he screamed. He jumped up to his feet and wiped the sticky mess out of his hair, trying not to retch.
“I’m afraid you aren’t going anywhere just yet, so make yourself comfy.” The shape had moved from the corner of the room and was now closing the door. The light from the TV did not give off enough light to show a face but Mason could make out the body, which looked disfigured.
“Who ARE you?” Mason said, his anger was rising again now. He would not let some deranged lunatic get the better of him.
“Let me show you, shall I?”
As the room filled with light, Mason had to shield his eyes from the sudden glare. After a few seconds he dropped his arms to side but his eyes were still getting accustomed to the light and he had to squint at the still unrecognisable shape that was stepping away from the lightswitch. Mason rubbed his eyes and looked again. His mouth dropped open as he recognised who standing before him.
“Surprise,” Nick Burbank said as he grinned his crazy grin at Mason. “Oh dear. Looks like you may have had a little accident.” Mason stood shaking in the centre of his living room, a puddle of urine spreading around his feet.
“B-but your…” Mason could no longer stop himself from stuttering.
“Dead?” Nick finished Mason’s sentence for him. “How very observant of you.” Nick took a few steps towards Mason. He dripped water and blood with every movement. His left arm looked limp and useless, swinging from the shoulder as he walked. Mason’s stomach heaved but he could not look away; his eyes flicked from Nick’s right eye, which had now entirely fallen from the socket and was resting on his cheek, and the hole in his head. As Nick got closer to Mason, the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling illuminated the gory mashed-up contents of his head.
“W-whada ya want” Mason asked, feebly.
“What I’ve always wanted,” Nick stopped a couple of feet away from Mason, “to give you a taste of your own medicine. I want to hear you cry out in pain like you have made me do so many times.” He grabbed Mason by the throat with so much force that Mason was unable to breathe and his tongue hung out of his mouth as he clawed at the arm that held him, he could feel the broken bones sticking out in different directions through the wet clothes. “That’s the same face Ryan pulled earlier. It’s a shame about him, he would have been a decent chap if he hadn’t have hung around with you and that fat tub of lard,” Nick flicked his head in the direction of Billy’s lifeless body. “But he’s just another person that’s had their life ruined by the great Mason Blair. And now he’s dead.”
Nick reached into one of his pockets with the arm that looked useless – it obviously worked fine from the elbow down. “I kept a souvenir from Ryan that I thought you might like.” Nick held the severed tongue between his forefinger and thumb up to Mason’s eye. Tears started to roll down his cheeks. “I forgot to say thanks, by the way. That knife of yours is very sharp.”
Nick swung Mason round by the throat and pushed him back into the armchair. “Aww, is big bad Mason scared?” Mason covered his face with his hands and sobbed hard. Nick knocked his arms aside roughly and thrust his face close to Mason’s. “Don’t give up yet, we’ve got all night.”
“Just through here, sir.” The police officer opened the front door and walked behind inspector Brown down the hallway. Several officers were in the kitchen looking in the fridge and one man was trying to take pictures of the contents. “What’s going on in there?”
“One of the victims’ head was left in the fridge, sir,” he replied.
Inspector Brown walked into the kitchen and approached the fridge, the other officers stood back to give him room.
“His name was Ryan White, 20, lived at 25 Hungerford road, sir,” one of the officers by the table said.
“Where is the rest of the body?” he asked, turning back to the officer that had come in with him.
“We don’t know, sir, the house and garden have been searched but there is no sign of it so far, but we have found the tongue.”
“Where is it?”
“It’s in the living room.”
Inspector Brown walked past the young officer, out of the kitchen and through the door into the living room. The body of a fat young man sat on the sofa. He had nearly been sliced in half and his insides now sat on his lap in a bloody mess.
“This is where the tongue is, sir,” a voice said from behind him. He turned around and saw the young officer standing by the door. Inspector Brown looked from him to the armchair. Another young man sat there with his head was slumped forward. The young officer lifted the young man in the chair’s head up and Inspector Brown saw the tip of a tongue protruding from between the cold dead lips. “Looks like he was eating it while he slit his wrists, sir.” Inspector Brown looked down at the dead man’s arms which were resting on the arms of the chair. Congealed blood covered the upholstery on the arms and had run down the sides onto the floor.
“Was the weapon found?” Inspector Brown asked.
“Yes sir, it has been sent to be dusted for prints, but I am pretty sure that it is Mason’s. He was arrested a few months back for carrying a knife identical to the one found.”
“You know who he is?”
“Yes sir, his name’s Mason Blair. He’s got a record for petty crime and violence,” The young officer let the dead man’s head drop back down. “Mason and the two victims used to hang around together. Looks like he had enough of their company.” The young officer looked at the body and smiled. “This guy used to bully me back at school. Man I hated him but I never thought he would ever go this far, I thought he was all talk. I always hoped somebody would teach him a lesson, guess that won’t happen now.”
© Matthew Webb