I hate everything.

   I hate the swing I’m sitting on. I hate the sea of wood chips underneath me. I hate the torturous, screeching sound the chains make with every oscillation. I hate the rain that’s slapping me across the face and slowly oozing into my eyes. I hate the clouds that are spitting it all over the place. I hate the lights coming from inside the school building. I hate the puddles I’ll have to walk through in order to get inside. I hate the fact that I have to go inside and keep hating everything for the rest of the day, for the rest of the week, for the rest of the month, for the rest of my life.

   So, to sum it up, I hate everything.

   I do this every day. I walk to the lower school playground and sit here, on this exact swing, every lunch period, and just think. If some ten-year-old is here first, I stand in front of him, without saying anything, until he leaves. Even if he tries to talk to me. It never fails. After all, I have as much time as I need. Even if I did just stand there the entire lunch period, it wouldn’t be wasting any more time than if I didn’t.

   I’m not a mean person. I know it may seem like my hatred for everything should translate into me being utterly terrible to everyone I see, but really I’m not. My goal in life, unlike a lot of people nowadays, is not to be mean to everyone I see. I simply don’t talk to anyone, and no one talks to me. No emotions exchanged whatsoever. I figure it’s better that way.

   I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the way I am. I just like to be alone. Thinking about how unfair everything is in the world is simply what I like to spend my time doing. It calms me down. It stops me from taking my anger out. Maybe it’s because I know there’s nothing I can do, and that I never did anything wrong. I’m just being alive, I guess.

   I look down at my shoes, worn from all the walking I do and now soaked because of the damn rain. My hair is plastered to my head, which is never very enjoyable. I look around and everything is droopy and dark; the wood chips are now a darker shade of brown, the trees are sagging, and a lonely dodgeball is absorbing rain like a sponge. The sky is filled with angry, grey, relentless clouds, and everything is a few shades darker than usual, and many shades more miserable.

   I kind of like it.

   Then I look over towards the big glass door into the school, and realize that I’m not alone out here anymore. A little boy is being cornered by some older kids, probably from the middle school. I can hear their voices.

   “Give me all the money you have.”

   The little boy is hopeless. I can tell there’s nothing left for him to do. He can’t run away because he’s being pinned against the school’s red brick wall, and his feet aren't touching the ground. He can’t fight back, because his attacker is at least twice his size and has two backups, probably specifically assigned to give their assistance if the boy decides to try anything. He can’t call for help, because there’s no one around that would bother to help him. So he does the only thing that he can think of to do.

   “I forgot to bring money today.”

   The older boy doesn’t move. He glances back to his two comrades, who sneer and laugh that high-pitched laugh that people like them do all the time. The attacker looks back at his prey with an intimidating grin on his face. “You forgot your money,” he confirms.

   The little boy nods anxiously, hoping that he’s escaped the situation.

   He hasn’t.

   The attacker pushes him harder into the wall. “You think I’m that stupid? You think I haven’t heard that one before?” His angry stare drills into the little boy’s terrified eyes. “Bull,” the attacker growls. “I know you brought money. I’m not stupid. You have it right there in your pocket.”

   The little boy glances down to his pocket, and now, even from a distance, I can tell he’s bluffing. He whimpers as the older boy crushes his shoulders deeper into the brick wall. “I don’t have it,” he squawks, “I swear!”

   I try to be as still as possible while I watch the scene unfold across the playground. I hate watching kids do this to other kids. In any case, no one would be able to escape three older, stronger people, and this kid is obviously no exception. It’s just so unfair. And the only reason they say they’re attacking him, their only excuse, is that they need his money. I almost have to laugh. What a stupid reason to harass someone. So juvenile. I can tell they're not the only ones being lied to. They don’t need his money. What they need is his anger.

   Because anger leads to hatred. And they say hatred is what makes the world go round.

   “Hey!” Suddenly the attacker pulls him off the wall, using both hands to hold him in the air by his shirt collar. “Don’t give me that crap! I know you brought money! Now give it to me and we’ll let you go!”

   His prey squirms around in the air, trying to wiggle himself free, but it’s no use. He punches the older boy’s arm a few times, but gets no response. “Please,” I hear him beg. “I don’t have it. Just let me go!”

   “Listen, kid.” The attacker pulls him in closer to his face, close enough to stare right past his lies. “I’ve had about as much trouble from you as I’m going to take. Give me the money, and you can live a little longer.”

   The little kid gulps, still staring straight ahead. His eyes are watering. It looks like it’s getting a little more serious than it probably needs to be, but I always find it’s better not to get involved.

   The prey sniffles once, and finally gives up. “Okay,” he said, with another sniffle. “Put me down, and I’ll give you it.”

   The older boy hesitates. He turns his head to his backups, who nod for him to let the kid down. He loosens his grip on the boy’s shirt, which sends him tumbling to the ground, clearly catching him by surprise. He gets up slowly, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, and looks back at the older boys.

   “Well?” their leader demands. His arms are crossed.

   The little boy looks down, begins to reach into his pocket, and suddenly bolts to his left, running as fast as he can towards the door. But before he gets very far, the attacker barks “Go!” at one of his backups, who sprints toward the boy.          

   They clearly saw it coming. And just before the boy gets to the door, he is yanked back and flung onto the ground. He tumbles into a puddle of mud, sending out a giant brown splash in all directions.
The other two boys strut over to where the little boy is trying to squirm out of the puddle, with tears in his eyes. The attacker exchanges nods with the sidekick who retrieved the boy. Then he kneels on the ground next to him and says calmly, slowly, “The money. Now.”

   The boy finally gives up. He pulls ten dollars out of his pocket and hands it over to his attacker. But the attacker isn’t finished. His eyes still drill into the boy, and they dig even deeper this time. Somehow, they know that there is still work to be done. He tilts his head slightly. “Where's the rest?”

   The little boy pouts one last time and digs out another five dollar bill. His last resort has failed. He’s a broken toy, a lost cause. He doesn’t care anymore that he’s basically absorbing mud; it doesn’t make him any less fixable.

   The older boy smiles. “Thank you.” He stands up and walks inside, ready to spend the extra fifteen dollars in the cafeteria. He turns back to the kid, who’s no longer looking at him because he’s too busy sobbing into his knees. “Next time,” the bully warns, “you shouldn’t put up such a fight.” Then he and his posse disappear into the school.

   I’m surprised that that little kid lasted so long. I definitely wouldn’t have put up such a fight. Younger kids just don’t understand how screwed up everything is nowadays. Yeah, I know, he was probably poor or something. That would at least give him a reason to try to keep his money. Maybe he needed it more than the older kids did. Actually, there’s no doubt in my mind that the attackers didn’t even want the extra fifteen dollars they worked so hard to get. They were just doing it for the sake of being mean. I guess I don’t blame them.

   But I don’t think that little boy is poor.

   I’m about to head back to the Upper School when I see him get up. And he doesn’t go through the school doors to the cafeteria like he should. Instead he marches angrily in my direction, with water seeping out of his shoes at every violent step.

   My suspicion was right. He had been waiting for me to help him.
I bet he looked at me and he saw a sad, lonely upper schooler who would do anything for anyone, because what else would I have to lose? He saw someone who was older than the others, someone with more authority than even the biggest, tallest middle schooler. But what he doesn’t know, and what no one else in the world knows, is who I actually am. I would never get myself involved in a situation like that unless it was absolutely necessary. I would never use my advantages against people who don’t know any better. I know it’s not really their fault that they have no idea how the world works. And the other thing this kid doesn’t know, that I know all too well, is that this is how he learns.

   I sit calmly on my swing, watching him stomp closer and closer. He’s half way here when he starts yelling at me. “I saw you watching!” he stabs through the rain. “I saw you watching me get beat up!” His steps are heavier the closer he gets. I don’t respond; I just keep on watching, which by now, apparently, he knows I do quite often. That’s good. I’m glad he finally learned something from  this. I wonder what he’ll learn next. Or what I’ll end up teaching him.
   “You liked watching me getting beat up, I bet!” he spits at me, wiping some tears and a lot of rain off of his face. “You thought it was funny, didn’t you?” He scoops up a handful of wood chips and launches them at me with all the might he has left. It turns out that it’s not enough; they spatter onto the ground in front of me. It’s much harder not to laugh than it is not to throw some back.

   He growls and picks up his pace even more. He can’t think of anything to add to his attempt at a verbal assault, so when he finally reaches me, he reaches his arms out to push me. I get an urge to stop him, and follow it, grabbing his wrists and stopping him in his tracks. He squirms around for a second, trying to free his arms so he can at least punch me or something, but gives up. There’s another thing he's learned; it’s always best not to fight back.

   I wait for what seems like a long time for him to say something. He takes his time getting his breath back, and he refuses to look at me until he does. Eventually he works up the courage to say what I know what he’s wanted to ask ever since he saw me. The expression on his face when he says it is that of someone who has just lost the most difficult battle of their life.

   “Why didn’t you help me?”

   So I look as closely as I can at him, making sure I have his full attention when he hears me say, “Why would I help you?”

   I let go of his wrists, and they flop down to his sides. He keeps looking at me as he backs away, and somehow the sadness on his face grows even sadder as he soaks in what I just told him. And then, with a final sob, he turns away and runs back to the school.

   Except he doesn’t run to the door to the cafeteria, the same way the three older boys went. He takes a right, around the school building. He’s probably going to the “office,” to tell the adults about what had just happened, or to call his mom or something. This means that he failed my test. I’m a little disappointed. But I know one day he’ll get it. He can’t run from the truth forever.

   No one will help him. No one will ever help him.

   There’s a reason why everyone hates each other. There’s a reason why people get bullied every day, wherever I look, and there’s a reason why I don’t help them. There’s a reason why nobody has any real friends, why nobody seems to care what’s going on around them, why nobody ever smiles, why nobody ever decides to be nice. The bullies at the lower school weren’t attacking that kid because they needed his money. They probably didn’t even want his money. And they didn’t do it because they didn’t like him. They did it because they wanted him to hate them.

   Because, in this messed up world, it’s dangerous to love someone. Because if you love someone too much, they could be gone without a trace the next day. And if someone loves you, you’ll be the one who disappears.

   Everyone is scared to be loved.