Ctrl + Alt + Dalt (BxB)

Ctrl + Alt + Dalt + 4

"I wasn't trying to," I say, honestly.

"That's the problem—isn't it? You do things—say things—and without even trying to, you destroy the people around you."

"Destroy? I think that's a bit much," I say—clearly, now, he's just exaggerating.

"Oh, no it's not. Again, Jordan's a prime example. While you live in a nice, big house, with you're fancy, sports car, and look! Now you have a another one—a Corvette, no less—"

"That's my father's car—"

"Oh! Well, pardon me. How could I ever make that mistake? It's not as if you don't get spoiled enough to—"

"You're one to talk with your—"

"I have a job, you don't. Sure, I didn't pay for all of it, but I sure as hell didn't just have it handed to me."

"Right. Fair enough,"  I admit, squarely, granting the truth of his rebuttal. "What about Jordan? Do you really have anything else to add, or do you just like using his name as your only example?"

"Only example? Really? Fine. First off, as for Jordan, have you ever asked him what happened to his life after you booted him?"

"No, I have not," I say, plainly—what's there to ask? I already see that, clearly, he has to work very hard just to make it by. Asking about what I can already observe for myself would only serve to unnecessarily rub in the fact that I'm clearly enjoying a much more comfortable life than his.

"Well, why don't you go do that? Ask him about how hard it was. Ask him about what it was like to be homeless—I'm sure he'll be thrilled that you're the one asking."

"I didn't know that he was homeless," I admit, dejectedly. The inside of my guts twist and churn as I realize that Base is right—I've been even more terrible to Jordan than I even realized before. I don't know why Jordan was able to forgive me so quickly and so easily. How could he? I don't deserve his forgiveness. And why didn't he tell me any of this himself? Instead, I have to hear it as third-party information, coming through Base, no less. I shudder, knowing that there's more and I've really been the cause of it all.

"Kelly Taylor. You remember her?"

"You mean, that one girl who moved away to...somewhere across the country, was it?"

"Wow... You don't even know where she moved to—I guess, you really don't care," he says, shaking his head and laughing rather incredulously. "You do, at least, remember why she moved away?"

"Right. Because I booted her, I get that much, Base—" I start, finally conceding to the fact that I'm guilty of playing no small part in causing people to be removed from the popular group—robbing them of the support of friendship, especially when they might need it the most—a fact that I'm really starting to feel sick about—a fact that's really starting to make me hate who I was—hate that I was so caught up with being popular that I was numb to all of the suffering that it was causing others—numb to the suffering that I was causing. It wasn't just Brogan—it was me—but that was the old me—I try to tell myself that it's not who I am now—at least, not anymore—but now that what I've done is already done, I'm forced to have to eat what I've sown—even if I've changed for the better—or, at least, I want to believe that I have.

"She's dead—"

"Dead?" I swallow a lump in my throat at the very mention of something so dark and tragic, the large pill of truth forcing its way down my esophagus, the guilt ripping into me from having played a part in both why she was booted and why she was bullied. Now, I can't even try to make amends, I can't even apologize to her for any of that anymore. I can only hope that she found some measure of peace, having gone much too young.