Born To Write

I snapped the photo, catching Jack looking out across to our old middle school. His silhouette was the only thing seen on this foggy fall morning with the faintest view of our old high school. The image created an atmosphere of doom and gloom.

Jack turned back to me after taking the photos and asked if I got his face in the photo. I shook my head and he said, “Good.”

We walked along the road and talked about the old times. We both struggled in school. Bullies were always a threat to us. Jack had a particularly hard time due to his small size and stuttering. I, on the other hand, struggled because I was overweight. Thankfully, I didn’t have that issue anymore.

“Do you remember Brian Humphries?” Jack asked.

“Of course I do. Why?” I asked.

“Oh, just wondering,” Jack answered. I swore I could hear him lightly chuckle under his breath.

I became concerned as to why he may ask about Brian. We hadn’t seen him well since that night after graduation, and he disappeared. Jack was almost giddy when it happened. He was brutally bullied, so I could understand why he might not care about him disappearing. They never found his body.

Jack turned around and stared back at the school and stopped. He began walking back and mumbling incoherently to himself. Then he began to sing an old Queen song, ‘Another One Bitten the Dust.’ Then he began to skip happily like he was twelve again.

I followed him back and wanted to know what the hell was going on. He stopped and looked at the school again and said, “Did you ever wonder why they never found Brian?”

I was confused and said, “Of course. Even if he was an asshole, no one really wanted anything bad to happen.” He looked at me and said, “I did.”

I became concerned at the moment and asked him what he was talking about. He turned with his lips turned up and his eyes looked empty and began to explain what he meant.

“He tortured me all through school, John. He never let me have any peace, and I just couldn’t take it anymore. I had to do something.” At that point, I had to stop him. “I’m not sure you want to tell me…”

Jack put a heavy hand on my shoulder and said, “I killed him, John. I killed him in the boiler room and put him down there in the furnace. God bless those old furnace systems.”

I checked myself and couldn’t believe what he was saying, and then he told me, “I’m dying, John, and only have six months left. That’s why I’m telling you. I saved so many other people from the tortures I had felt. I kind of consider myself a hero, even if the law wouldn’t.”

He turned back to the school, and I took his picture facing the school once more as a silhouette in the fog. I never told a single person about this till now, as I lie on my deathbed knowing my friend was a killer.