So death is something everyone hears about, almost every day. Homicides, murders, movies, whatever. Being a horror movie fanatic, I see death a lot. I have never seen a horror movie where no one dies in some horrible or profound way. Because of this, death never bothered me much. To me, it was just another unfortunate thing that happens. Even at family funerals I didn’t have much of a reaction. That’s just how I was not so long ago.
I was sitting in front of my computer. Comfortable in my red Pokémon pajamas, munching away on mac and cheese. I was trying to snatch a few more bites before launching myself into my new modern warfare video game. Why I played this is a mystery to me. Just following the crowd I guess. Hypnotized by social media.
Just as my hand reached out to my keyboard, my phone rang. I looked at it sitting on my bed, the Pokémon theme song chirping away.
“I’m never going to get online.” I muttered to myself, frustrated and annoyed. I actually considered ignoring the call, but the fact that it was a call, and not the usual text, made me answer.
It was a school friend. Or rather an associate, not that I knew the difference at the time. I was quite ready to pull the whole, “oh! My phone is about to die!” or the “I’ll call you back. My mom is calling me.”
“Hello?” I spoke into the receiver. I am sure I had a sharp tone in my voice. Completely unintentional.
Despite my slight malice, the news that descended upon me in a vicious torrent was like a bucket of ice being thrown into my face.
Jonathan was dead. He had committed suicide by eating six bottles of five hundred milligram Tylenols, with a bottle of vodka. This was a bit of a shock to me. No. this was a punch in the face over and over again. This wasn’t Jonathan. Jonathan? Not the same gay boy in my philosophy class. Not the same boy who was beat up as I stood by and watched. That particular day flared into my mind with unwanted clarity.
Jonathan had been minding his own business at his locker. Switching his books in his black and white checkered backpack a few boys had walked by snickering, and making crude jokes directed at Jonathan.
“Look at that damn faggot!” one said. It was quiet for a moment except for the usual school hallway chatter. I closed my locker across form Jonathan, and turned around just in time to see a heavy biology textbook connect with Jonathan’s face. The boys had come back, and he never saw it coming.
As soon as Jonathan hit the ground, a crowd formed around them. The boy who hit Jonathan began to kick him, his fiends following suit.
“Punk ass!” he said as they punched and kicked any spot that was open with a force that was brutal. I winced as each blow connected with Jonathan’s body, but played it off like it didn’t bother me. Like Jonathan’s bruised and bloodied bronze face didn’t make my skin crawl in a sick way. I had forced myself to just be one of the grinning cool kids watching a fight.
But this news was impossible. The same Jonathan that went through hell from virtually everyone in the school because of his sexuality was suddenly gone. The same one that even I picked on because I thought it was cool or funny. This was reality.
The vile, dark world of cruelty had finally claimed his kind heart. Tore him from the world like we tear weeds from a garden. He could no longer take the evil that was constantly thrown at him. So death snatched him up into its dark, enveloping wings.
Guilt coiled around me. Vile, poisonous smog seeping into my mind. It is true that I wasn’t the cruelest person to Jonathan. Not by a longshot! But, nevertheless, I played my role. I was just as accountable for his death as the boys who beat him. I no longer wanted my mac and cheese.
The funeral was a few days later. My mind was blank when I entered the church. Stained glass pictures of the virgin marry and Jesus were wedged between perfect rows of cream colored brick. Gold chandeliers hung from wooden arcs on the high ceiling. How they got candles up there every day was beyond me.
A damp, musky smell assaulted me as I made my way to a seat. It was as if someone had placed damp towels and dirt on the floor, and turned to heat up. Way up. A bead of sweat trailed down my forehead. It was probably just me though. Many people had on sweaters and jackets.
I didn’t see any one that I knew. I wasn’t looking either, but I did take the time to see all the faces up front. The faces of family that accepted him for who he was. Who loved him despite his choice that made him Jonathan. The faces that were now contorted with rage and pain as diamonds fell from their crystalized eyes. All because of, me?
I sat on the cold, wooden bench near the back or the church, while everyone else went to view Jonathan’s body. I couldn’t go up. I didn’t think I could stand looking into the face of someone I helped kill. I simply stared at the shiny white casket. Someone had placed the pride flag at the base of the casket, where it draped down the sides. A waterfall of color that melted into a sea of blood that was the red carpet. Flowers surrounded the casket in a perfect ring. You could tell that they were running out of room for them by the way some of the flowers overlapped to the point of falling over.
“It’s such a shame.” A tall, bronze skinned lady said. She sat next to me, returning from viewing Jonathan’s body. “Children are so cruel it’s sickening. “ Guilt resurfaced as I looked back at the casket, eyes blinded by my own diamonds.
I was different after that day. I felt I had to do something to make up for my venomous flaw. So a month later, I got my first tattoo. I focused on the pain and blood that oozed out of the wound as the needle tore through my paper-thin skin. A single drop of blood on my wrist. A tribute to all who tore themselves from this world. And to this day, I wear Jonathan’s bracelet. One he dropped during that horrible fight oh so long ago. Another tribute to one who was tortured by this cruel world.
