Teen Ink

Sam

Dry leaves crunch under my shoe as I walk home through the woods from school. Normally, I use the peacefulness of the walk to think of ideas my writing, but there seems to be an eerie feeling in the atmosphere. I cannot help but quicken my pace a little bit.
I hear more leaves crunching behind me. I jump, but turn around to see a couple of boys a year older than me from my neighborhood.
“Hey, faggot!” one of them calls out.
It is Luke, a boy whose face, which I have never seen without a mean sneer, is covered with acne. It seems as if the only thing in his wardrobe is skinny jeans and dark hoodies.
I pretend not to hear them and keep walking forward, my eyes glued to one of the trees in front of me. I dare not look back twice.
I feel a tug on the hood of my sweatshirt and I am pulled back. Losing balance, I begin to fall, my arms waving back and forth in a useless attempt to break my fall. I wince as I land on a pointy twig that is poking out from under the dirt. My notebook, which I was hugging to my chest, has fallen in front of me.
Come on Sam, defend yourself.
How can I defend myself? All of these boys were a lot stronger than me, and there was no one to help me. I was hopeless.
“Oh, look! It’s Sam’s poetry!” Luke snickers, picking up the notebook faster than my hands can reach for it.
“Hey, give that back!” I yell.
I try to stand up, but one of the boys kicks me so hard in the ribs that I could have sworn I heard a crack. I cry out in pain, and curl up into the fetal position under the boy’s foot.
“Maybe if we make Sam cry, he will write a poem about us!” One of the boys says, but I am in too much pain to figure out who it was.
He kicks the notebook, some of the pages flying out. One of the papers slowly lands in front of me. Written on it was one of my poems I wrote in between classes.
I am on the run from misery,
But there is no where to hide
“I wonder.” Luke agrees.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Luke pull out a pocket knife. He gently runs the blade down the side of my face, pausing at my throat.
“If I make you cry, will you run home and write a poem about us? Show it to your mommy?”
When I do not answer, he kicks me in the same spot the other guy had kicked me. It takes everything to stop myself from screaming.
“Answer me, fag.” he yells, the knife pressing a little harder against the skin of my neck.
I close my eyes tight, not wanting to see my own blood being drawn. I wonder if Luke had an intention of killing me, like someone killed Michelle. For a brief second, I wonder if maybe Luke was the murderer, but I do not have too much time to dwell on the subject. Suddenly, the knife is thrown on the ground, and I hear Luke swear as he is shoved away from me.
“Leave him alone!” I hear another boy, his voice sounding dangerous.
I open my eyes. Luke is now too on the ground, blood gushing from his nose.
The boy picks up the knife that has fallen from Luke’s hand.
“Get out of here. Unless one of you wants to get seriously hurt.”
After Luke and his friends were a distance away, the boy tries to help me sit up. I whimper a little, so he lays me back down again.
“How badly did they hurt you?” he asks.
“Bad.” I mutter.
“Look, I have been meaning to talk to you. I was friends with your sister, Michelle.”
I want to answer, but it hurts to even breathe.
“I think you are like me. Can you,” he pauses to find the right words, “See or hear things no one else can?”
I look at him confused. A secret that has not once left my lips, not even in my writing, is known by a complete stranger.