I wrote this piece last summer for a flash essay competition. It didn’t win, and since then no magazine I’ve submitted it to has wanted to touch it. I’ve had newer pieces—which don’t mean nearly as much to me as this little text does—get accepted for publication, yet this one still hasn’t found a home. So for the time being, I’m giving it one here. Enjoy.
I used to know this boy. Let’s call him D.
D was average to a degree that it became his first defining feature. Average height, average weight, average intellect, average looks. He possessed an average level of kindness and every so often could tell a good joke. His skin was mildly brown.
D’s second defining feature was being bullied. While he was my classmate, I tried to shield him from the worst of it, though even I had to admit some of the jabs were on point. We parted ways for high school. I got into the best school in the city, he into a more average one.
There they bullied him. God, they bullied him. It was said that once, at recess, someone turned the classroom lights off and six boys began pounding D like a sack of meat. They beat him so badly an ambulance had to be called. Another time, and this during class, someone set his hair on fire.
Dear D, I think about you often. They say we’re all the heroes of our own stories, but did you ever feel the hero? Or were you nothing more than a background character in your own life? I hope things turned around for you in the end. I have no way of reaching you these days, so all that’s left is the sadness; the guilt, too, because I could’ve helped you more; and the vague hope that despite it all, you found the strength to save yourself.
Average American animosity towards another person for what reason do they bring their own destruction. Is it their scent that causes others pain and they need to join forces against a person. These things need to be answered.