Buttersteps

“This is a gun.”

Dad doesn’t normally talk anything like this. It’s hard to even take him seriously. The guy’s a total goof, not to mention he could stand to lose a few pounds. He’s just not particularly authoritative is all. So it doesn’t really make sense, him lecturing me and Angel like this as mom watches from the doorframe.

“It’s not a toy, and it isn’t to be touched in the first place. This is for emergencies only- and if I’m around, it’s for me only.”

He positions the thing carefully so as not to point it at us. Still, it’s clear he’s never held one before.

“…And your mother.” He adds, smiling. That’s the dad I know.

“What is it for?” Angel asks, raising his little hand. “Why can’t Sam use it?”

“Only grown-ups can use it. One day, when Sam is a grown-up, she can use it too.”

“I dunno.” I remark. “I think I’ll leave it to you two. Guns aren’t really my thing.”

“Guns are a tool, sweetie.” He tells me. “Just like anything else, they can do good or bad.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t do anything.” Mom interjects. I kinda agree. Not that I see that thing ever going off in the first place.

“Weee! The gun won’t do anything!” Angel gets up and runs around. “The gun won’t do anything!”

“Yeah, that’s right. I hope that’s right.” Dad says. “But if the time comes… if… Well, if somehow, something really, really bad happens- I hope this gun can serve as some insurance. You know. A safeguard.”

“I get it, dad.” I’m the only one to respond. “But I don’t especially wanna think about why we’d need to shoot up our own house right now.”

“I understand, sweetie. Just… you know. If there is an emergency- don’t be afraid to-“

“I got it, dad. If Jason Vorhees breaks into our house, I’ll pop a cap in his ass. You happy?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” He exhales, slapping the gun down on his knee. “I’m sorry to scare you. I’m just glad we had this tal

Out of the barrel explodes a streak of lightning that lasts only half a second as everyone jumps up at hearing the sound of a giant balloon popping. The new hole in our wall stares at us like a bunch of idiots as mom and Angel start to cry. The guilty pistol rests on the carpet, nobody brave enough to pick the thing up, and dad, arms glued to his sides, having stood up so fast that his chair’s been knocked over is seemingly about to faint. A minute passes and mom goes to call some people in the neighborhood to apologize and explain that it’s alright. Dad holds Angel, and offers to hold me- but I just stand there.

“It’s okay… it’s okay… hey, maybe we all oughta take some safety lessons… yeah, yeah- I’ll put the gun away for now… hopefully this can be a learning experience for all of us.”

What a wild-ass morning.

I’m not letting it bother me. The walk to school is short and class won’t be all that long either. Just a half day. We earned it ‘cause we got good grades, I guess. They said it’s been the best semester in years. I just don’t see why a middle school cares so much. Once I’m outta here, will anybody really remember that I got a B+ on my fall chemistry exam? I sure don’t want ‘em too. Toss that shit in the garbage for all I care.

I step on a butterfly.

The front gates are wide open for us. Is this old-fashioned? Whenever I talk to people online they say my school’s freaking bizarre. Feels pretty normal to me. Seems like everywhere else you gotta drive forty miles just to get to a maximum security facility for glue-eaters. Inconvenient is what it is. That’s the real horror of America, hell of a lot more than mass shootings and terrorist attacks. This place is huge and we’re all scared of each other. I open my locker. Ah, Christ. Left my math homework in here yesterday. Forgot I even had any. I guess I could finish it before second block if I really tried, but… man, what a drag. It’s my half day, for Pete’s sake. Mr. Wood ain’t taking that up. I shut my locker.

ᗰᖇ. ᗯOOᗪ ᗯIᒪᒪ TᕼᖇOᗯ ᗩ ᖴIT ᗩT YOᑌ.

I turn around. Nobody. I turn left. Nobody. I turn right. Nobody. I look up. Nobody. I open my locker. Nobody, obviously. What the shit? Who said that? Who told me that? Wasn’t on the intercom. Was it in my head? How would it be in my head? Am I going crazy?

Iᖴ YOᑌ ᗯOᖇᖇY TOO ᗰᑌᑕᕼ, YOᑌ’ᒪᒪ KIᒪᒪ YOᑌᖇᔕEᒪᖴ.

Who said that? Who the fuck said that? I look all around again but nobody’s there. “Who are you?” I think, praying for an answer.

YOᑌ KIᒪᒪEᗪ ᗰE EᗩᖇᒪIEᖇ, ᗷᑌT TᕼᗩT’ᔕ OKᗩY. I’ᗰ YOᑌᖇ ᖴᖇIEᑎᗪ ᑎOᗯ.

Who did I kill? Who the fuck did I kill?! I didn’t kill anyone!

ᒍᑌᔕT ᗩ ᕼᑌᗰᗷᒪE ᗷᑌTTEᖇᖴᒪY. YOᑌ GOT ᒪᑌᑕKY. TᕼE OᑎᒪY ᑕOᑎᔕEᑫᑌEᑎᑕE ᖴOᖇ TᕼᗩT ᗩᑕTIOᑎ Iᔕ ᗰE ᗷEᑕOᗰIᑎG YOᑌᖇ ᖴᖇIEᑎᗪ.

Who are you?! Who the hell are you?!

ᒪIKE I ᔕᗩIᗪ, I’ᗰ TᕼE ᗷᑌTTEᖇᖴᒪY. TᕼE ᗷᑌTTEᖇᖴᒪY YOᑌ ᔕTEᑭᑭEᗪ Oᑎ Oᑎ YOᑌᖇ ᗯᗩY TO ᔕᑕᕼOOᒪ.

I didn’t step on any butterflies!

YOᑌ ᗰᗩY ᕼᗩᐯE ᑎOT ᔕEEᑎ IT, ᗷᑌT YOᑌ ᗪIᗪ. YOᑌ KIᒪᒪEᗪ ᗰE, ᗩᑎᗪ ᑎOᗯ I’ᗰ YOᑌᖇ ᖴᖇIEᑎᗪ. IT’ᔕ ᗩᒪᒪ ᐯEᖇY ᔕIᗰᑭᒪE.

Butterflies don’t talk! I act like I’m looking in my locker as I try to regain my composure. I’m tearing up. I’m scared that… I might be going insane.

YOᑌ ᗩᖇE ᑭEᖇᖴEᑕTᒪY ᔕᗩᑎE ᗩᑎᗪ ᗯIᒪᒪ ᖇEᗰᗩIᑎ ᗩᔕ ᔕᑌᑕᕼ ᔕO ᒪOᑎG ᗩᔕ YOᑌ ᒪIᔕTEᑎ TO ᗰE. YEᔕ, YOᑌ ᗩᖇE ᑕOᖇᖇEᑕT. ᗷᑌTTEᖇᖴᒪIEᔕ ᗪO ᑎOT TᗩᒪK. ᗷᑌT ᗷEᑕᗩᑌᔕE YOᑌ ᔕTEᑭᑭEᗪ Oᑎ ᗰE, I ᑎOᗯ ᑕᗩᑎ. ᗩᔕ I ᔕᗩIᗪ, IT Iᔕ ᗩᒪᒪ ᐯEᖇY, ᐯEᖇY ᔕIᗰᑭᒪE.

How would me stepping on you make you able to talk inside my head?!

IT ᕼᗩᑭᑭEᑎEᗪ ᗷEᑕᗩᑌᔕE YOᑌ ᔕTEᑭᑭEᗪ Oᑎ ᗰE, Oᖴ ᑕOᑌᖇᔕE. YOᑌ ᒍᑌᔕT ᔕᗩIᗪ IT YOᑌᖇᔕEᒪᖴ. ᗷEᑕᗩᑌᔕE YOᑌ ᗪIᗪ ᔕOᗰETᕼIᑎG, TᕼEᖇE ᗯᗩᔕ ᗩ ᑕOᑎᔕEᑫᑌEᑎᑕE. ᑕᗩᑎ ᕼᑌᗰᗩᑎᔕ ᑎOT ᑌᑎᗪEᖇᔕTᗩᑎᗪ EᐯEᑎ TᕼᗩT?

Okay, I don’t understand. I don’t, and I still think I’m insane. But that’s fine. That’s okay. Yeah. I’ll be your friend. I can accept that this is happening. Just… please. I don’t care if you’re some ghost or demon or something… just please- do not hurt me. Do not hurt- anyone. Can you promise me that?

I ᗩᗰ EᑎTIᖇEᒪY IᑎᑕᗩᑭᗩᗷᒪE Oᖴ ᗩᑕTIᑎG Oᑎ YOᑌᖇ ᗯOᖇᒪᗪ. I OᑎᒪY ᔕEEK TO ᕼEᒪᑭ YOᑌ TᕼᖇOᑌGᕼ TᕼE ᗯEᗷ Oᖴ ᑕOᑎᔕEᑫᑌEᑎᑕEᔕ TᕼᗩT YOᑌ ᔕO ᑕᒪEᗩᖇᒪY ᗪO ᑎOT ᑌᑎᗪEᖇᔕTᗩᑎᗪ.

Okay. Fine. And you- you won’t make me go crazy or anything? You won’t- you won’t tell me to kill people, or

I ᗯIᒪᒪ ᑎOT “TEᒪᒪ” YOᑌ TO ᗪO ᗩᑎYTᕼIᑎG. I ᗯIᒪᒪ TEᒪᒪ YOᑌ ᗯᕼᗩT ᗯIᒪᒪ ᕼᗩᑭᑭEᑎ Iᖴ YOᑌ ᑭᖇOᑕEEᗪ ᗯITᕼ ᗩᑎ IᑎᑕOᖇᖇEᑕT ᗩᑕTIOᑎ, ᗩᑎᗪ TᕼᗩT Iᔕ ᗩᒪᒪ. I ᗯOᑌᒪᗪ OᑎᒪY EᐯEᖇ ᔕᗩY ᔕOᗰETᕼIᑎG “ᗷᗩᗪ” TO YOᑌ Iᖴ YOᑌ ᔕTOᑭᑭEᗪ ᒪIᔕTEᑎIᑎG TO ᗰE. I ᗪOᑎ’T ᗯᗩᑎT TO ᒪOᔕE YOᑌᖇ ᗩTTEᑎTIOᑎ, ᗩᖴTEᖇ ᗩᒪᒪ.

Okay… wait, what do you mean, “incorrect?”

ᗩᔕ I ᔕᗩIᗪ, YOᑌ ᕼᑌᗰᗩᑎᔕ ᔕEEᗰ TO ᗷE ᑕOᗰᑭᒪETEᒪY ᑌᑎᗩᗯᗩᖇE Oᖴ TᕼE ᗯEᗷ Oᖴ ᑕOᑎᔕEᑫᑌEᑎᑕEᔕ YOᑌ ᖇEᔕIᗪE Iᑎ. I ᑭᒪᗩᑎ TO ᔕᕼOᗯ YOᑌ TᕼᗩT ᗯEᗷ, ᔕO ᗯᕼEᑎEᐯEᖇ YOᑌ ᗪO ᔕOᗰETᕼIᑎG ᗯᖇOᑎG- Oᖇ ᗩᖇE ᗩᗷOᑌT TO ᗪO ᔕOᗰETᕼIᑎG ᗯᖇOᑎG- I ᗯIᒪᒪ TEᒪᒪ YOᑌ. TᕼᗩT ᗯᗩY, YOᑌ ᑕᗩᑎ ᒪIᐯE YOᑌᖇ ᒪIᖴE ᑕOᖇᖇEᑕTᒪY.

Okay… Okay. So you said earlier- if I don’t do this paper- Mr. Wood will throw a fit?

TᕼᗩT’ᔕ ᖇIGᕼT. ᕼE ᗯIᒪᒪ YEᒪᒪ ᗩT YOᑌ. IT ᗯIᒪᒪ ᗷE ᐯEᖇY ᗪIᔕTᖇEᔕᔕIᑎG. ᗩᖴTEᖇ TᕼᗩT, YOᑌ ᗯIᒪᒪ ᑕᖇY Iᑎ ᖴᖇOᑎT Oᖴ TᕼE EᑎTIᖇE ᑕᒪᗩᔕᔕ.

Okay. Okay, I’ll just do it then. Easy.

…The voice doesn’t respond to me.

I sit alone in first block chemistry. I’m done with the sheet not even halfway through class. It was really quite easy. I feel bad for being so lazy before. It’s not like it made much sense to leave that assignment for later. Maybe this little butterfly can actually be of some use to me. I mean, it’s a tad freaking scary, but…

I get up to go to the bathroom.

Iᖴ YOᑌ GO TO TᕼE ᗷᗩTᕼᖇOOᗰ, ᗰᖇ. ᗯOOᗪ ᗯIᒪᒪ TᕼᖇOᗯ ᗩ ᖴIT ᗩT YOᑌ.

What- what the hell do you mean? This isn’t his class. Why would he

Iᖴ YOᑌ ᒪEᗩᐯE TᕼIᔕ ᖇOOᗰ ᗩT ᗩᑎY ᑭOIᑎT ᗪᑌᖇIᑎG TᕼIᔕ ᑕᒪᗩᔕᔕ, GᖇEGOᖇY ᖴIᑎᑕᕼ ᗯIᒪᒪ ᔕTEᗩᒪ YOᑌᖇ ᗰᗩTᕼ ᑭᗩᑭEᖇ. ᕼE ᗯIᒪᒪ Tᑌᖇᑎ IT Iᑎ, ᗩᑎᗪ YOᑌ ᗯIᒪᒪ ᗷE YEᒪᒪEᗪ ᗩT ᗯITᕼOᑌT IT.

You mean the blonde dude sitting behind me? Okay, then. I’ll just bring the paper with me to the bathroom. What then?

I ᔕᗩIᗪ ᑎOTᕼIᑎG ᗩᗷOᑌT TᕼE ᒪOᑕᗩTIOᑎ Oᖴ TᕼE ᑭᗩᑭEᖇ.

But that doesn’t make sense. So if I leave this class with that paper still in my possession, you mean somehow he’s gonna

ᕼE’ᔕ ᗷEEᑎ ᒪOOKIᑎG ᗩT YOᑌ ᗩᑎᗪ TᕼᗩT ᑭᗩᑭEᖇ ᗩᒪᒪ ᑕᒪᗩᔕᔕ ᒪOᑎG. Iᖴ YOᑌ ᒪEᗩᐯE ᗯITᕼ IT, ᕼE’ᒪᒪ ᗷE ᗩᑎGEᖇEᗪ. ᕼE ᗯIᒪᒪ ᖴOᒪᒪOᗯ YOᑌ IᑎTO TᕼE ᗷᗩTᕼᖇOOᗰ ᗩᑎᗪ ᔕTEᗩᒪ TᕼE ᑭᗩᑭEᖇ.

That’s totally ridiculous. Greg doesn’t have the balls. Hell, even if he did, what kind of psycho would do that? I mean what, is he gonna fight me for it? I gotta piss, man. What am I supposed to do?

ᗰY KᑎOᗯᒪEᗪGE Oᖴ TᕼE ᗯEᗷ Oᖴ ᑕOᑎᔕEᑫᑌEᑎᑕEᔕ Iᔕ ᗯITᕼOᑌT ᖴᗩᑌᒪT.

Fuck this. Okay, what if I just sit in here? Is that the correct choice?

YEᔕ, IT ᗯOᑌᒪᗪ ᗷE, Iᖴ YOᑌ ᗰᑌᔕT KᑎOᗯ. YOᑌ ᗯIᒪᒪ ᑌᖇIᑎᗩTE Iᑎ YOᑌᖇ ᑭᗩᑎTᔕ, ᗷᑌT ᗩᔕ TᕼEY ᗩᖇE ᗪᗩᖇK Iᑎ ᑕOᒪOᖇ, ᑎOᗷOᗪY ᗯIᒪᒪ ᑎOTIᑕE ᖴOᖇ TᕼE ᖇEᗰᗩIᑎᗪEᖇ Oᖴ TᕼE ᗪᗩY. Iᑎ ᖴᗩᑕT, TᕼEᖇE ᗯIᒪᒪ ᗷE ᑎO ᑎEGᗩTIᐯE ᑕOᑎᔕEᑫᑌEᑎᑕE ᗩT ᗩᒪᒪ. YOᑌ ᗩᖇE ᗩ ᐯEᖇY, ᐯEᖇY ᒪᑌᑕKY GIᖇᒪ, IT ᔕEEᗰᔕ.

I am not pissing my pants today.

…No response.

I look at Greg. I can tell he just turned away as soon as my eyes darted to him. Jackass. I turn back to my page. Is there nothing I can do? Am I really supposed to just sit here and wet myself? Sure seems like that’s what the butterfly wants… but what if it’s wrong? What if I pee myself, and someone does notice? Or what if it’s just gaslighting me, and Greg won’t follow me into the bathroom after all? That still doesn’t add up, after all. This kid just wouldn’t do that. I would never believe anybody else if they told me he’d do that. And even the butterfly has yet to prove its predictions to be true… it could very well be lying to me. I need to find out if it’s telling the truth. But how?

I pick up my pencil and look at Greg. No, not Greg. If this thing is lying, that makes him innocent, and I don’t want the last prediction influencing my experiment anyway. I divert my sights over to Chelsie. She’s just a tad annoying, but nothing else. She’s not super popular, or super unpopular. There’s zero chance that anything easily predictable would happen if I were to say, throw this pencil at her, besides her getting mad- and the butterfly would be more specific than that, so I’m not worrying. Say for instance she was popular. The butterfly might predict she would humiliate or bully me. It would be very likely to happen, anyone could predict that. Say for instance she was unpopular. It might say she would snap or kill somebody one day. I hate to think it, but plenty of people could probably predict that, too, and I wouldn’t wanna stick around anyway to find out if they were right or not. But when I throw this pencil at this normal girl- there’s really no telling how specifically she might react. Only the butterfly could know. So here’s your test, butterfly. I’m gonna throw this pencil at Chelsie Gardner.

Iᖴ YOᑌ TᕼᖇOᗯ TᕼᗩT ᑭEᑎᑕIᒪ, ᗰᗩᖇTIᑎ GᗩIᑎᔕᗷOᖇOᑌGᕼ ᗯIᒪᒪ ᕼᗩᐯE ᗩ ᑭᗩᑎIᑕ ᗩTTᗩᑕK.

The shit? Butterfly effect my ass, that just doesn’t make any sense. I ain’t throwing it at him. But fine. I’ll throw it at someone other than Chelsie then.

Iᖴ YOᑌ TᕼᖇOᗯ TᕼᗩT ᑭEᑎᑕIᒪ, ᗰᗩᖇTIᑎ GᗩIᑎᔕᗷOᖇOᑌGᕼ ᗯIᒪᒪ ᕼᗩᐯE ᗩ ᑭᗩᑎIᑕ ᗩTTᗩᑕK.

What the hell do you mean?! Okay, fuck this. I’m calling your bluff. Full-of-shit little butterfly.

I throw the pencil across the room, not aiming at anyone.

It hits the floor. Silence. A couple kids look at it. Maybe a few look at me. Whatever.

Gotcha. You lying son of a bitch. Martin’s just fine.

I look at Martin.

It doesn’t… look like much is happening. But… he’s sitting weird. His posture isn’t normally so unkempt. He’s staring at his desk. But I think he’s okay. What am I thinking- he has to be okay. All I did was drop a pencil, essentially. He’ll be just fine.

He’s shaking. Nobody’s noticed, but he’s shaking.

ᗰY KᑎOᗯᒪEᗪGE Oᖴ TᕼE ᗯEᗷ Oᖴ ᑕOᑎᔕEᑫᑌEᑎᑕEᔕ Iᔕ ᗯITᕼOᑌT ᖴᗩᑌᒪT.

Jesus Christ- I stand up. I look at him. He’s breathing too fast. His eyes are frozen. Something’s wrong. Somebody has to help him. Somebody has to help him.

ᗰᗩᖇTIᑎ ᗯᗩᔕ Oᑎ ᕼIᔕ ᒪᗩᔕT ᒪEGᔕ TOᗪᗩY. ᕼE ᗯᗩᔕ ᗩᑎ᙭IOᑌᔕ ᗩᒪᒪ ᑕᒪᗩᔕᔕ, ᗪᖇIᐯIᑎG ᕼIᗰᔕEᒪᖴ ᗰᗩᗪ ᗩᔕ ᕼE ᔕTᖇEᔕᔕEᗪ OᐯEᖇ ᗯᕼᗩT ᗯOᑌᒪᗪ ᕼᗩᑭᑭEᑎ ᗯᕼEᑎ ᕼE ᖇETᑌᖇᑎEᗪ ᕼOᗰE ᖴᖇOᗰ TᕼIᔕ ᐯEᖇY, ᐯEᖇY ᔕᕼOᖇT ᔕᑕᕼOOᒪ ᗪᗩY- ᗷᗩᑕK TO ᗩ ᖇᗩTᕼEᖇ ᑌᑎᖴOᖇTᑌᑎᗩTE ᕼOᗰE ᒪIᖴE. ᕼE ᗯᗩᔕ ᔕO TEᖇᖇIᖴIEᗪ Oᖴ TᕼE ᗰEᖇE ᗩᗰᗷIEᑎT ᑎOIᔕE Oᖴ TᕼE ᑕᒪᗩᔕᔕᖇOOᗰ. IT ᑕOᑌᒪᗪ’ᐯE ᗷEEᑎ ᗩᑎY ᗰIᑎᑌTE TᕼᗩT ᕼE ᗯOᑌᒪᗪ ᑎO ᒪOᑎGEᖇ ᗷE ᗩᗷᒪE TO ᔕTOᗰᗩᑕᕼ TᕼE ᗪᖇOᗯᑎIᑎG ᗩTᗰOᔕᑭᕼEᖇE. ᗷᑌT ᕼE ᗯOᑌᒪᗪ’ᐯE ᗰᗩᗪE IT, ᕼᗩᗪ YOᑌ OᑎᒪY ᒪIᔕTEᑎEᗪ TO ᗰE. ᕼᗩᗪ YOᑌ ᑎOT TᕼᖇOᗯᑎ TᕼᗩT ᑭEᑎᑕIᒪ ᗩᑕᖇOᔕᔕ TᕼE ᖇOOᗰ ᗩᒪᒪ Oᖴ ᗩ ᔕᑌᗪᗪEᑎ

Shut up. Oh my god. Oh my god. Someone has to help him. I have to-

“M-Ms. Hanes! Martin is-“

The teacher freaks out. As everyone gets up and stares, Martin is quickly taken to the Nurse’s office after she sees his horrid expression. In the chaos, I pick my pencil off the ground, clutching my math homework tightly in hand as my bladder burns. I guess… the butterfly’s knowledge of the web of consequences… is without fault. I sit in silence for the rest of class… and wet myself.

𐀔

The rest of the school day is a hell without comparison.

As I waddle down the hallway to Mr. Wood’s class, ignoring the sogginess between my legs, I can’t help but look around for some distraction. But whenever I think of doing anything, the butterfly chimes in.

Iᖴ YOᑌ GO TᕼᗩT ᗯᗩY, YOᑌ ᗯIᒪᒪ ᖴᗩᒪᒪ ᗩᑎᗪ ᗷᖇEᗩK YOᑌᖇ ᑎOᔕE.

Iᖴ YOᑌ ᒪIᔕTEᑎ Iᑎ Oᑎ TᕼᗩT ᑕOᑎᐯEᖇᔕᗩTIOᑎ, TᕼOᔕE GIᖇᒪᔕ ᗯIᒪᒪ ᔕTᗩᖇT TO ᗷᑌᒪᒪY YOᑌ.

Iᖴ YOᑌ TᗩᒪK TO TᕼᗩT ᗷOY, ᕼE ᗯIᒪᒪ ᗷEGIᑎ TO ᔕTᗩᒪK YOᑌ Oᑎ ᔕOᑕIᗩᒪ ᗰEᗪIᗩ.

Iᖴ YOᑌ GO TO YOᑌᖇ ᒪOᑕKEᖇ, YOᑌ ᗯIᒪᒪ ᗷE ᔕE᙭ᑌᗩᒪᒪY ᕼᗩᖇᗩᔕᔕEᗪ ᗷY ᗩ ᐯIᔕITOᖇ ᖴᖇOᗰ TᕼE ᕼIGᕼ ᔕᑕᕼOOᒪ.

Iᖴ YOᑌ ᗪOᑎ’T GET TO ᑕᒪᗩᔕᔕ Oᑎ TIᗰE, ᗰᖇ. ᗯOOᗪ ᗯIᒪᒪ TᕼᖇOᗯ ᗩ ᖴIT.

So I just go straight to the classroom at the edge of the school’s west wing. I’m the second or third one there. As I sit down, I feel the wetness spread across my thighs, and I want to start crying.

Iᖴ YOᑌ ᑕᖇY, ᗰᖇ. ᗯOOᗪ ᗯIᒪᒪ TᕼᖇOᗯ ᗩ ᖴIT.

What the hell is Mr. Wood so pissed for today? I wait and wait for him to come in. He doesn’t show up until a few minutes after the whole class is here. Normally I wouldn’t have noticed, but he’s not looking so good. His armpits are sweating through his white button-up, and his glasses are crooked. Unlike usual, he doesn’t greet us. Fine by me. I can’t stand false compassion. But I gotta admit, he’s creeping me out. As he sets his books on the desk, he looks at me like some kind of serial killer.

“S-SAM ARTHUR.”

“-Yes?” I utter.

“Good, you’re here… O-okay, let’s see… RYAN CROSS?”

Attendance lasts a decade. As I make sure I still have my homework for when he takes it up, I scan around the room for any potential threats. I’m honestly still panicking a bit as the bizarre nature of my current situation hits me again, but everything’s okay right now. It looks like things should go just fine this class.

ᗷE ᐯEᖇY ᑕᗩᖇEᖴᑌᒪ, Oᖇ ᗰᖇ. ᗯOOᗪ ᗯIᒪᒪ TᕼᖇOᗯ ᗩ ᖴIT.

Why do you gotta keep on reminding me? I didn’t even do anything! And why is that “consequence” in particular so goddamn important?

ᗰᖇ. ᗯOOᗪ Iᔕ ᖇEᗩᗪY TO ᗪIE TOᗪᗩY. ᗩᑎᗪ Iᖴ ᕼE TᕼᖇOᗯᔕ ᗩ ᖴIT, ᕼE’ᒪᒪ TᗩKE YOᑌ ᗯITᕼ ᕼIᗰ.

What are you fucking saying this time? Just how many people in this school are on the edge of madness today? And do you mean to imply Wood will actually try to kill me?

ᕼE ᗯIᒪᒪ ᑎOT ᑎEEᗪ TO TᖇY. Iᖴ ᗩT ᗩᑎY ᑭOIᑎT ᗰᖇ. ᗯOOᗪ TᕼᖇOᗯᔕ ᗩ ᖴIT ᗪᑌᖇIᑎG TᕼIᔕ ᑕᒪᗩᔕᔕ ᑭEᖇIOᗪ, ᕼE ᗯIᒪᒪ KIᒪᒪ YOᑌ.

I throw my hands up to my forehead as I stare at my desk. Jesus Christ…

Iᖴ YOᑌ ᑕᖇY, ᗰᖇ. ᗯOOᗪ ᗯIᒪᒪ TᕼᖇOᗯ ᗩ ᖴIT.

I know. I fucking know because you just won’t shut up about it. You’re pushing ME to the edge at this rate.

ᗯITᕼOᑌT ᗰE, YOᑌ’ᗪ ᗩᒪᖇEᗩᗪY ᗷE ᗪEᗩᗪ.

….

I can’t argue with it. Without the butterfly, I’d have never done my homework… and if it’s to be believed, that would mean the end of my life.

Iᖴ YOᑌ ᗪOᑎ’T Tᑌᖇᑎ Iᑎ YOᑌᖇ ᕼOᗰEᗯOᖇK, ᗰᖇ. ᗯOOᗪ ᗯIᒪᒪ TᕼᖇOᗯ ᗩ ᖴIT.

Huh?

I look up at the tall figure standing over my dropping head. He pierces into me with a look of tightening fury, covered by the last remaining pieces of his professional form. His open hand sits in front of me, hovering as aches for my input. His lips quiver and his fingers beckon as I freeze in terror. Shakily, I slowly pull my paper from my desk, before quickly inserting carefully in his palm. As his fingers retract onto it, he turns and walks to the next child, eyes still very much on me.

Phew…

“Can you tell me… why you don’t have your paper, Ryan?”

My eyes dart over to the boy next to me. As he talks to Mr. Wood I briefly consider running out of the classroom. Why? Couldn’t I do anything? If he doesn’t have it- then that’s it, isn’t it? Mr. Wood will throw a fit anyway. That’s the end.

Iᖴ YOᑌ ᔕTOᑭ ᕼIᗰ, ᗰᖇ. ᗯOOᗪ ᗯIᒪᒪ TᕼᖇOᗯ ᗩ ᖴIT.

Stop him?

“Ryan… Ryan, Ryan, Ryan…”

He’s trying to make it sound like he’s laughing, but Mr. Wood is really starting to cry under an angry smile, his lunacy boiling over… He’s gonna fucking kill us at this rate!

What do I do?

WHAT DO I DO?

Iᖴ YOᑌ ᔕTOᑭ ᕼIᗰ, ᗰᖇ. ᗯOOᗪ ᗯIᒪᒪ TᕼᖇOᗯ ᗩ ᖴIT.

STOP HIM FROM WHAT?

Mr. Wood slams the boy’s head into the desk with his left hand. Like touching a hot stove on accident, he pulls it away just after, laugh-crying at the boy.

TᕼᗩᑎKᔕ TO YOᑌ, ᗰᖇ. ᗯOOᗪ ᖇEᑕIEᐯEᗪ ᗩT ᒪEᗩᔕT OᑎE ᑕOᗰᑭᒪETE ᗩᔕᔕIGᑎᗰEᑎT ᗷEᖴOᖇE ᕼIᔕ ᕼOᑭEᔕ ᗯEᖇE ᗪᗩᔕᕼEᗪ. ᑎOᗯ, IᑎᔕTEᗩᗪ Oᖴ “TᕼᖇOᗯIᑎG ᗩ ᖴIT,” ᕼE ᗯIᒪᒪ ᔕIᗰᑭᒪY “ᗷᒪOᗯ ᗩ ᖴᑌᔕE.”

“I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE ALL YOU FUCKIN’ KIDS! YOU LITTLE SHITS SPEND ALL DAY ON MY TIME, AND YOU STILL HAVE THE GALL TO NOT DO THE FUCKIN’ WORK!? NONE O’ YOU’LL EVER AMOUNT TO SHIT! SURE AS FUCK NOT YOU RYAN, YOU STUPID SON OF A BITCH! WHY CAN’T YOU BE MORE LIKE SAM, HUH? AT LEAST THAT FUCKIN’ WEIRDO CAN DO A GODDAMN LINEAR EQUATION!” Mr. Wood screams, taking Ryan by the bangs and slamming him into the hardwood desk again and again as he struggles to get up from the built-in seat, his feeble arms trying and failing to remove the attacker. “I SHOULD FUCKIN’ KILL YOU! BUT RIGHT NOW I JUST FEEL LIKE SEEING YOU CRY LIKE THE BITCH YOU ARE!”

I can’t let this happen- With a death grip on my desk, I start to propel myself from my seat

Iᖴ YOᑌ ᔕTOᑭ ᕼIᗰ, ᗰᖇ. ᗯOOᗪ ᗯIᒪᒪ TᕼᖇOᗯ ᗩ ᖴIT.

What? But

Iᖴ YOᑌ ᔕTOᑭ ᕼIᗰ, ᗰᖇ. ᗯOOᗪ ᗯIᒪᒪ TᕼᖇOᗯ ᗩ ᖴIT.

I have to help him! Someone has to help him, don’t they?!

ᒪOOK ᗩᖇOᑌᑎᗪ.

Everyone else is either too scared to do anything, or doesn’t seem to mind watching. So long as I don’t do anything, I’m just another one of them. It’s disgusting.

TᕼEY KᑎOᗯ.

What?

TᕼEY KᑎOᗯ ᑎOT TO ᔕTOᑭ ᕼIᗰ, ᗷEᑕᗩᑌᔕE ᔕOᗰETᕼIᑎG ᗷᗩᗪ ᑕOᑌᒪᗪ ᕼᗩᑭᑭEᑎ TO TᕼEᗰ Iᖴ TᕼEY ᗪIᗪ. YOᑌ’ᖇE TᕼE OᑎᒪY OᑎE ᖴOOᒪIᔕᕼ EᑎOᑌGᕼ TO ᑕOᑎᔕIᗪEᖇ ᗪOIᑎG ᔕOᗰETᕼIᑎG ᗩᗷOᑌT TᕼIᔕ.

That’s fucking ridiculous! If nobody does anything, then what- what happens to this kid?

YOᑌ ᗰEᗩᑎ ᖇYᗩᑎ?

-Yes! Ryan! What happens to

ᕼE’ᔕ ᒍᑌᔕT ᗩᑎOTᕼEᖇ ᕼᑌᗰᗩᑎ ᗷEIᑎG. ᕼE’ᒪᒪ ᗪIE ᗩᑎYᗯᗩY Iᖴ ᗰᖇ. ᗯOOᗪ TᕼᖇOᗯᔕ ᗩ ᖴIT. ᕼᗩᐯEᑎ’T YOᑌ ᕼEᗩᖇᗪ Oᖴ TᕼE TᖇOᒪᒪEY ᑭᖇOᗷᒪEᗰ?

Mr. Wood forces his hands down on the boy’s head to keep him nailed to the desk. I can tell he’s starting to struggle to breathe.

How have you? The trolley problem shouldn’t matter when we’re talking about-

I GᑌEᔕᔕ YOᑌ ᕼᗩᐯEᑎ’T. ᗯEᒪᒪ, IT GOEᔕ ᔕOᗰETᕼIᑎG ᒪIKE TᕼIᔕ. YOᑌ’ᖇE ᗩᑎ OᑎᒪOOKEᖇ ᗯᗩTᑕᕼIᑎG ᗩ ᐯEᖇY ᗷIG TᖇᗩIᑎ ᑕᗩᖇᖇYIᑎG ᗩ ᑎᑌKE. Iᖴ YOᑌ ᑭᑌᒪᒪ ᗩ ᑎEᗩᖇᗷY ᒪEᐯEᖇ, TᕼE TᖇᗩIᑎ ᗯIᒪᒪ ᗪIᐯEᖇT TO ᗩ ᗪIᖴᖴEᖇEᑎT ᑭᗩTᕼ Tᕼᗩᑎ IT ᕼᗩᗪ ᑭᒪᗩᑎᑎEᗪ TO GO Oᑎ. Oᑎ TᕼIᔕ ᑭᗩTᕼ, ᗩᑎ E᙭TEᖇᗰIᑎᗩTOᖇ ᕼᗩᔕ TᖇᗩᑭᑭEᗪ ᖴIᐯE ᗷᑌTTEᖇᖴᒪIEᔕ. ᔕO ᒪOᑎG ᗩᔕ YOᑌ ᗪOᑎ’T ᑭᑌᒪᒪ TᕼE ᒪEᐯEᖇ, TᕼE TᖇᗩIᑎ ᗯIᒪᒪ ᖇEᗩᑕᕼ ITᔕ ᗪEᔕTIᑎᗩTIOᑎ, ᗩᑎᗪ TᕼE ᑎᑌKE ᗯIᒪᒪ ᒪᗩTEᖇ ᗷE ᒪᗩᑌᑎᑕᕼEᗪ OᑎTO ᗩ ᖴOᖇEIGᑎ ᑕOᑌᑎTY Iᑎ ᗯᕼIᑕᕼ ᑎO ᗷᑌTTEᖇᖴᒪIEᔕ ᖇEᔕIᗪE. EᐯEᑎ TᕼOᑌGᕼ TᕼEY KᑎOᗯ ᗰOᖇE ᗷᑌTTEᖇᖴᒪIEᔕ ᗯIᒪᒪ ᗷE KIᒪᒪEᗪ Iᖴ TᕼEY ᗪO, ᗩ ᖴOOᒪIᔕᕼ ᑭEᖇᔕOᑎ ᗯIᒪᒪ ᔕTIᒪᒪ ᑭᑌᒪᒪ TᕼE ᒪEᐯEᖇ. ᗪO YOᑌ ᑌᑎᗪEᖇᔕTᗩᑎᗪ?

What the fuck are you talking about? You’re not making sense! At this rate, he’s gonna- I have to do something! If I just sit and do nothing, I won’t be able to live with myself!

Iᖴ YOᑌ ᗯOᖇᖇY TOO ᗰᑌᑕᕼ, YOᑌ’ᒪᒪ KIᒪᒪ YOᑌᖇᔕEᒪᖴ.

You’re not helping! Goddammit- I hate you! Why are you hurting me this way? Why?

I hear the sound of human soda opening next to my head.

Mr. Wood backs into the wall in shock, the blood inside his nails from Ryan’s bleeding, snapped neck refusing to leave him. He breathes in between his breaths, hyperventilating as he sobs. The class behind me is a mess of human expression that can’t agree. Some people are crying. Some people are laughing, though they pick at their lips in fear. Most just sit in burning silence. I tell myself I could’ve saved him. I swear never to listen to the butterfly ever again.

𐀔

The half day became a fourth day when the incident resolved itself. After taking his own life with the knife in his desk, Mr. Wood was no longer a threat to our physical lives. But as we were escorted out of the classroom by police, nobody felt like they were still living. I remembered the gunshot I heard this morning and even the feeling of crushing the butterfly I didn’t notice my heel step on to. Even I arrived back at home that night, I didn’t feel like myself anymore. I feel like the butterfly had been talking to me all this time, but I was blocking it out. Is it a coincidence that I reviewed such a thing on what had been the worst day of my life? I’m sure it would have an opinion on that. But I can’t hear it. I can barely hear my parents as they hug and talk to me on the couch. But I strain myself to open my ears, and their voices finally find me.

“Honey, you ᶜᵃⁿ talk about it.”

“Let it out.”

“We’re here for you.”

“If you ᵈᵒⁿ’ᵗ want to, that’s okay.”

“We just want to know ⁱᶠ you're okay.”

Iᖴ YOᑌ ᗪOᑎ’T ᒪIᔕTEᑎ TO ᗰE, YOᑌ’ᒪᒪ ᖇEGᖇET IT.

Eventually, I’m alone. Except the butterfly is still there, saying the same things.

ᕼEY. ᗩᖇE YOᑌ ᒪIᔕTEᑎIᑎG TO ᗰE?

Are you going to hurt me

OᑎᒪY Iᖴ YOᑌ ᔕTOᑭ ᒪIᔕTEᑎIᑎG TO ᗰE.

Why do you care if I listen to you or not?

I ᗯᗩᑎT TO ᑭᖇOTEᑕT YOᑌ.

You’re a hypocrite

I’ᗰ ᗩ ᗷᑌTTEᖇᖴᒪY.

I want to change clothes. Anything I should worry about right now?

YEᔕ, E᙭ᗩᑕTᒪY. I’ᐯE ᗷEEᑎ TᖇYIᑎG TO TEᒪᒪ YOᑌ.

…

Iᖴ YOᑌ ᑕᕼᗩᑎGE ᑕᒪOTᕼEᔕ ᗷEᖴOᖇE ᗷEᗪ, YOᑌᖇ ᗷᖇOTᕼEᖇ ᗩᑎGEᒪ ᗯIᒪᒪ ᗪIE.

That doesn’t make sense.

ᗯOᑌᒪᗪ YOᑌ ᒪIKE TO KᑎOᗯ ᗯᕼY?

I don’t want to know

ᗩᖇE YOᑌ ᑌᑭᔕET?

YOU’RE LYING TO ME

I ᑎEᐯEᖇ ᒪIE.

I KNOW YOU ARE

I ᗩᗰ ᑎOT.

THAT’S IMPOSSIBLE!

IT Iᔕ ᐯEᖇY ᑭOᔕᔕIᗷᒪE.

WHY ME? Huh? WHY ME? Why today? Why any of this? It’s… yeah, it’s not IMPOSSIBLE. But it SHOULD be. It’s not conceivable. It’s not believable. It’s not even realistic. Why isn’t it impossible?

ᗷEᑕᗩᑌᔕE YOᑌ ᗩᖇE ᗩ ᐯEᖇY, ᐯEᖇY ᒪᑌᑕKY GIᖇᒪ.

I’m going to stop listening to you.

Iᖴ YOᑌ ᗪO TᕼᗩT, YOᑌ’ᒪᒪ ᖇEGᖇET IT.

What will you do?

I’ᒪᒪ ᗰᗩKE YOᑌ ᗰOᖇE ᗯOᖇᖇIEᗪ Tᕼᗩᑎ YOᑌ EᐯEᖇ ᕼᗩᐯE ᗷEEᑎ.

You’re well on your way. And then what, huh?

Iᖴ YOᑌ ᗯOᖇᖇY TOO ᗰᑌᑕᕼ, YOᑌ’ᒪᒪ KIᒪᒪ YOᑌᖇᔕEᒪᖴ.

And you’re sure of that?

ᗰY KᑎOᗯᒪEᗪGE Oᖴ TᕼE ᗯEᗷ Oᖴ ᑕOᑎᔕEᑫᑌEᑎᑕEᔕ Iᔕ ᗯITᕼOᑌT ᖴᗩᑌᒪT.

Then finish me, you insectoid fucking maggot bastard.

ᔕO ᗷE IT. ᒪET’ᔕ Eᑎᗪ TᕼIᔕ ᒪIᖴE TOGETᕼEᖇ, ᗰY ᖴOOᒪIᔕᕼ ᖴᖇIEᑎᗪ.

I stand from my old, uncomfortable mattress.

ᗪO YOᑌ ᗯᗩᑎT TO KᑎOᗯ ᔕOᗰETᕼIᑎG ᔕᑕᗩᖇY?

I cover my ears, but it doesn’t do anything. My search begins in the kitchen. Dad’s in there, but it isn’t. Why would it be? I think I’m just scared. I had no reason to try here.

ᒪIKE ᗩᑎY IᗪEᗩ, TᕼIᔕ ᗯOᖇᒪᗪ ᖇᑌᑎᔕ Oᖴᖴ ᗩ ᔕET Oᖴ ᑭOᔕITIᐯE ᗩᑎᗪ ᑎEGᗩTIᐯE ᑕᕼᗩᖇGEᔕ. YOᑌᖇ “ᔕᑕIEᑎᑕE” ᗰᗩKEᔕ ᗩ ᖴEEᗷᒪE ᗩTTEᗰᑭT ᗩT ᑌᑎᗪEᖇᔕTᗩᑎᗪIᑎG IT. IT’ᔕ ᑎO ᗪIᖴᖴEᖇEᑎT ᖴᖇOᗰ ᕼOᗯ YOᑌ ᑕᖇEᗩTE ᑕOᗪE. ᑕᕼEᑕKᔕ ᗩᑎᗪ ᗷᗩᒪᗩᑎᑕEᔕ ᗩᖇE ᑌᔕEᗪ TO ᗪEᑕIᗪE ᗯᕼᗩT ᗯIᒪᒪ ᕼᗩᑭᑭEᑎ. ᕼOᗯEᐯEᖇ, TᕼIᔕ ᗰEᗩᑎᔕ TᕼEᖇE ᗯIᒪᒪ IᑎEᐯITᗩᗷᒪY ᗷE OᐯEᖇᔕIGᕼTᔕ, Iᑎ ᗯᕼIᑕᕼ, ᗷY ᑭEᖇᖴOᖇᗰIᑎG ᐯEᖇY, ᐯEᖇY ᔕᑭEᑕIᖴIᑕ ᗩᑕTIOᑎᔕ, E᙭TᖇEᗰE ᑕOᑎᔕEᑫᑌEᑎᑕEᔕ ᑕᗩᑎ ᑕOᗰE ᗩᔕ ᗩ ᖇEᔕᑌᒪT Oᖴ ᗩᑕTIOᑎᔕ YOᑌ ᕼᑌᗰᗩᑎᔕ ᗯOᑌᒪᗪ IᑎᑕOᖇᖇEᑕTᒪY ᗪEEᗰ ᗰEᗩᑎIᑎGᒪEᔕᔕ.

“Sam, have you talked to Angel?” Dad says to me as I walk past. “He’s been scared all day since this morning, and this… well, this hasn’t made it much better. I hear they’ll have… a hospital room ready for you, come next morning, but… maybe… maybe for tonight, you could talk to Angel? He’s just so scared.”

YOᑌᖇ ᗪᗩᗪ ᕼᗩᔕ ᑎEᐯEᖇ EᗩTEᑎ Tᑌᑎᗩ ᗷEᖴOᖇE. ᕼE ᗪOEᔕᑎ’T KᑎOᗯ IT, ᗷᑌT Iᖴ ᕼE EᐯEᖇ ᗪOEᔕ, ᕼE’ᒪᒪ ᗪIE Iᑎ ᗩ ᑕᗩᖇ ᑕᖇᗩᔕᕼ. Iᖴ YOᑌ TEᒪᒪ ᕼIᗰ, ᕼE’ᒪᒪ ᑭᖇOᗷᗩᗷᒪY Eᑎᗪ ᑌᑭ EᗩTIᑎG Tᑌᑎᗩ. Iᖴ YOᑌ ᗪOᑎ’T TEᒪᒪ ᕼIᗰ, ᕼE’ᒪᒪ EᗩT Tᑌᑎᗩ EᐯEᑎTᑌᗩᒪᒪY ᗩᑎYᗯᗩY. TᕼE OᑎᒪY ᗯᗩY YOᑌ ᑕᗩᑎ EᐯEᖇ ᔕᗩᐯE ᕼIᗰ Iᔕ ᗷY ᗰᗩKIᑎG IT ᔕO TᕼᗩT ᕼE ᑕᗩᑎ ᑎEᐯEᖇ, EᐯEᖇ EᗩT Tᑌᑎᗩ. ᗷᑌT YOᑌ ᗯOᑎ’T, ᗷEᑕᗩᑌᔕE ᑎOᗯ TᕼᗩT YOᑌ KᑎOᗯ TᕼIᔕ, YOᑌ’ᒪᒪ ᗷE ᑭᗩᖇᗩᒪYᘔEᗪ ᗷY TᕼE ᐯEᖇY IᗪEᗩ.

Shut up.

I look in the living room. Why am I in here? It wouldn’t be in here. Only mom is in here. She’s looking at me, but has nothing she can say. She doesn’t know anything that could happen to her. She doesn’t know what’s going to happen to her. She’s human. I guess I’m not human anymore.

ᗯᗩᑎᑎᗩ ᕼEᗩᖇ ᔕOᗰETᕼIᑎG ᖇEᗩᒪᒪY ᑕᖇᗩᘔY?

It’s definitely not in the bathroom, but I’m in the bathroom anyway. I’m not looking for it, just hiding. I’m scared. I’m so scared.

YOᑌᖇ ᗰOᗰ’ᔕ ᔕITTIᑎG Iᑎ ᗩ ᑕᕼᗩIᖇ ᗷEᔕIᗪE ᗩ ᗯIᑎᗪOᗯ ᖇIGᕼT ᑎOᗯ. ᗷEᑕᗩᑌᔕE Oᖴ TᕼᗩT, ᔕᕼE’ᒪᒪ ᗷE TᗩᖇGETEᗪ TOᗰOᖇᖇOᗯ ᗩᖴTEᖇᑎOOᑎ Iᑎ ᗩᑎ ᗩTTᗩᑕK Oᑎ ᕼEᖇ OᖴᖴIᑕE. ᗪO YOᑌ ᗯᗩᑎT TO KᑎOᗯ ᗯᕼᗩT TᕼEY’ᒪᒪ ᗪO TO ᕼEᖇ?

SHUT UP

I run to their bedroom. It’s in here, isn’t it? Please let it be here please let it be please let it

Oᕼ. ᗩᖇE YOᑌ ᗩᗷOᑌT TO ᗰᗩKE ᗩᑎ IᑎᑕOᖇᖇEᑕT ᑕᕼOIᑕE Oᑎ ᑭᑌᖇᑭOᔕE?

I find it under the bed. They didn’t even bother to get a locked case for it. Just some hard plastic-feeling box. Thank you, dad. Thank you, mom.

ᖴIᖇᔕT, ᒪET ᗰE TEᒪᒪ YOᑌ EᐯEᖇY ᔕIᑎGᒪE TᕼIᑎG TᕼᗩT ᗯIᒪᒪ ᕼᗩᑭᑭEᑎ Iᖴ YOᑌ ᑌᔕE TᕼᗩT IᗰᑭᒪEᗰEᑎT.

The weight of the gun tells me it is probably loaded.

ᗩᑎGEᒪ ᗯIᒪᒪ ᖴIᑎᗪ YOᑌᖇ ᗷOᗪY. ᕼE ᗯIᒪᒪ ᑎEᐯEᖇ ᖴᑌᒪᒪY ᖇEᑕOᐯEᖇ. YOᑌᖇ ᗪᗩᗪ ᗯIᒪᒪ ᖴOᒪᒪOᗯ Iᑎ YOᑌᖇ ᖴOOTᔕTEᑭᔕ ᗰᗩᑎY YEᗩᖇᔕ ᒪᗩTEᖇ ᗩᔕ ᕼIᔕ ᒪIᖴE ᖴᗩᒪᒪᔕ TO ᑭIEᑕEᔕ. YOᑌᖇ ᗰOTᕼEᖇ ᗯOᑎ’T GO TO ᗯOᖇK TOᗰOᖇᖇOᗯ, ᗩᑎᗪ YOᑌ’ᒪᒪ ᔕᗩᐯE ᕼEᖇ ᖴOᖇ TᕼᗩT OᑎE ᗪᗩY. ᗷᑌT ᔕᕼE’ᒪᒪ ᗷE ᔕᑌᔕᑭEᑕTEᗪ ᗩᖴTEᖇ TᕼE ᗩTTᗩᑕK Oᑎ TᕼE OᖴᖴIᑕE, ᗩᑎᗪ TᕼE ᔕTᖇEᔕᔕ ᗯIᒪᒪ ᗰᗩKE ᕼEᖇ ᗷᖇEᗩK. TᕼE GᖇOᑌᑭ ᖇᗩIᗪIᑎG TᕼE ᗷᑌIᒪᗪIᑎG ᗯIᒪᒪ ᑕOᑎTᗩᑕT ᕼEᖇ ᗩᑎᗪ ᖴOᖇᑕE ᕼEᖇ TO ᑕᒪᗩIᗰ ᖇEᔕᑭOᑎᔕIᗷIᒪITY, ᑌᔕIᑎG ᗩ ᑕᗩᑭTᑌᖇEᗪ ᗩᑎGEᒪ ᗩᔕ ᒪEᐯEᖇᗩGE. ᗩᑎᗪ YOᑌᖇ ᗷOᗪY ᗯIᒪᒪ ᒪOOK ᐯEᖇY ᑌGᒪY ᗯᕼEᑎ YOᑌ ᗪIE. YOᑌ ᗯIᒪᒪ ᗷE ᗪIᔕGᑌᔕTIᑎG. TᕼᗩT’ᔕ ᖇIGᕼT, ᗩᑎᗪ ᗩᖴTEᖇ YOᑌ ᗪIE, YOᑌᖇ ᖴᖇIEᑎᗪᔕ ᗯIᒪᒪ ᗰᗩKE ᖴᑌᑎ Oᖴ YOᑌ. YOᑌ ᗯIᒪᒪ ᗷE ᐯEᖇY ᐯEᖇY ᔕᗩᗪ.

Why do you care? I won’t. I’ll be dead.

I’ᗰ ᒍᑌᔕT TEᒪᒪIᑎG YOᑌ ᗯᕼᗩT ᗯIᒪᒪ ᕼᗩᑭᑭEᑎ.

You’re not. You only ever say bad things.

YOᑌ ᔕᕼOᑌᒪᗪᑎ’T KIᒪᒪ YOᑌᖇᔕEᒪᖴ.

I want to.

YOᑌ TᖇIEᗪ TO ᔕTOᑭ ᒪIᔕTEᑎIᑎG. I GOT ᗩᑎGᖇY.

What, are you trying to tell me you’re sorry? I want you gone. If I have to die to do it… so be it.

Iᖴ YOᑌ KIᒪᒪ YOᑌᖇᔕEᒪᖴ, ᗯE’ᒪᒪ ᗷOTᕼ GO TO ᕼEᒪᒪ TOGETᕼEᖇ, ᗩᑎᗪ YOᑌ’ᒪᒪ ᗷE ᗯITᕼ ᗰE ᖴOᖇEᐯEᖇ.

So… hell is real, huh?

IT ᗩᗷᔕOᒪᑌTEᒪY Iᔕ, YEᔕ.

I don’t believe you.

ᗰY KᑎOᗯᒪEᗪGE Oᖴ TᕼE ᗯEᗷ Oᖴ ᑕOᑎᔕEᑫᑌEᑎᑕEᔕ Iᔕ ᗯITᕼOᑌT ᖴᗩᑌᒪT.

I don’t think it is. If everything you say is true… why all now? It’s all so unlikely.

YOᑌ ᗩᖇE ᗩ ᐯEᖇY, ᐯEᖇY ᒪᑌᑕKY GIᖇᒪ.

I know that. But you don’t really believe in luck, so you? You only ever talk about the consequences of actions. So by that… you really mean this is all because we met, isn’t it? Because I stepped on you, I became cursed to live this life. For all I know, your predictions don’t even mean anything until I hear them from you. Maybe, if you’d never told me how Martin Gaisburough would have a panic attack, he never would have. Is that right?

TᕼᗩT’ᔕ ᗩ ᖴᗩᒪᔕE ᗩᔕᔕᑌᗰᑭTIOᑎ, ᗩᑎᗪ YOᑌ ᕼᗩᐯE ᑎO EᐯIᗪEᑎᑕE ᖴOᖇ IT.

But I could try to live ignoring you.

ᗷᑌT YOᑌ’ᒪᒪ ᗪIE.

I’m the only person in the world with this power. Most everyone else is doing just fine. I can’t be this lucky. I just can’t. It’s all your fault. If I ignore you… maybe, maybe you’ll go away. Lose your power over me.

YOᑌ ᗯOᑎ’T TᖇY IT.

I look down at the pistol in my hands.

YOᑌ’ᒪᒪ ᗯOᖇᖇY TOO ᗰᑌᑕᕼ. TᕼEᑎ YOᑌ’ᒪᒪ KIᒪᒪ YOᑌᖇᔕEᒪᖴ.

I put the gun back away.

Iᖴ YOᑌ ᗪOᑎ’T ᕼIᗪE TᕼE Gᑌᑎ ᗷETTEᖇ, ᗩᑎGEᒪ ᗯIᒪᒪ ᖴIᑎᗪ IT OᑎE ᗪᗩY.

There’s no voice in my head anymore. I walk out the door.

ᕼEY, ᗪIᗪ YOᑌ ᕼEᗩᖇ ᗰE? ᕼE’ᒪᒪ ᖴIᑎᗪ IT ᔕOᗰETIᗰE ᗩᑎᗪ ᕼᑌᖇT ᕼIᗰᔕEᒪᖴ. TᕼEᑎ ᕼE’ᒪᒪ ᗪIE, ᗩᑎᗪ IT’ᒪᒪ ᗷE ᗩᒪᒪ YOᑌᖇ ᖴᗩᑌᒪT.

I lie in bed. I’m so tired.

Iᖴ YOᑌ ᑕᒪOᔕE YOᑌᖇ EYEᔕ, YOᑌ’ᒪᒪ ᕼᗩᐯE ᗩ ᑎIGᕼTᗰᗩᖇE ᗯᕼEᖇE EᐯEᖇYOᑎE YOᑌ KᑎOᗯ Iᔕ TOᖇTᑌᖇEᗪ.

My sleep felt short that night. I don’t recall what I dreamed about. The next day I was taken to a place where they said they would help me following the incident I witnessed at school involving Mr. Wood’s assault on a student.

OᑎE Oᖴ TᕼE ᗪOᑕTOᖇᔕ Iᑎ TᕼIᔕ ᕼOᔕᑭITᗩᒪ Iᔕ ᗩ ᗰᑌᖇᗪEᖇEᖇ ᗯᕼO ᗯIᒪᒪ OᑭEᖇᗩTE Oᑎ YOᑌ Iᑎ YOᑌᖇ ᔕᒪEEᑭ.

I stay in the hospital for some time, and the images of that day will never dissipate entirely. But I wake up one day, and they aren’t the first thing I think about. I had a nice breakfast that day.

ᕼEY… ᗯOᑎ’T YOᑌ ᒪIᔕTEᑎ TO ᗰE?

When I went back to school… I was feeling more like I used to. I didn’t care so much about the things that might worry others. I didn’t wonder what might happen to me following the next step I took as I walked. I just liked feeling the air at my side as I did.

Y̷o̷u̷ ̷c̷a̷n̷’̷t̷…̷ ̷e̷v̷e̷n̷ ̷h̷e̷a̷r̷ ̷m̷e̷,̷ ̷c̷a̷n̷ ̷y̷o̷u̷?̷

It’s okay that some bad things have happened to me, and that more will someday. Why would anyone choose to stay lingering on that fact?

D̷o̷ ̷y̷o̷u̷…̷ ̷h̷a̷t̷e̷ ̷m̷e̷.̷.̷?̷

We put the gun in a safer place. That’s the kind of thing that needs to be done. The only kind of thing that needs to be done. There’s a big difference between precaution and obsession. I think that, in life, you lock up your guns so that you don’t worry if you trip and fall on accident. Ha, does that make any sense? I mean that so long as the big stuff is taken care of, a little room for error is granted. And you can live in that room.

I̷’̷m̷ ̷s̷o̷r̷r̷y̷,̷ ̷S̷a̷m̷.̷ ̷I̷ ̷u̷s̷e̷d̷ ̷t̷o̷ ̷b̷e̷ ̷s̷o̷ ̷s̷c̷a̷r̷e̷d̷ ̷o̷f̷ ̷s̷o̷m̷e̷o̷n̷e̷ ̷s̷t̷e̷p̷p̷i̷n̷g̷ ̷o̷n̷ ̷m̷e̷,̷ ̷t̷h̷a̷t̷’̷s̷ ̷a̷l̷l̷.̷

Middle school is over now. A lot will happen from here on out, and some of it will be my fault. But really, most of it won’t. And some of that stuff will be good for me anyway.

I̷ ̷t̷h̷o̷u̷g̷h̷t̷ ̷I̷ ̷c̷o̷u̷l̷d̷ ̷m̷a̷k̷e̷ ̷y̷o̷u̷ ̷s̷m̷a̷r̷t̷.̷

I’m gonna enjoy these years.

B̷u̷t̷ ̷I̷ ̷m̷a̷d̷e̷ ̷y̷o̷u̷ ̷j̷u̷s̷t̷ ̷a̷s̷ ̷d̷u̷m̷b̷ ̷a̷s̷ ̷m̷e̷.̷

I’m glad I’m here today.

Y̷e̷t̷ ̷s̷t̷i̷l̷l̷,̷ ̷i̷t̷ ̷d̷i̷d̷n̷’̷t̷ ̷w̷o̷r̷k̷…̷

One night, I went to sleep, and I had a very, very bad dream where everyone I knew was tortured.

Y̷o̷u̷’̷r̷e̷ ̷t̷o̷o̷ ̷g̷o̷o̷d̷ ̷f̷o̷r̷ ̷m̷e̷,̷ ̷S̷a̷m̷.̷

It felt so real, but I woke up eventually.

G̷o̷o̷d̷b̷y̷e̷

I get scared like that, sometimes.