Dylan

∥angry dogs∥

After that, not a moment was simple. Gone were the childish days of mindless fun. His heart knew pain but his brain didn't understand. At thirteen, Dylan was forced to grow up a lot quicker than he intended to.

The nights were the worst, since there was no hustle and bustle of daily life to distract him. The mornings weren't any easier, either, especially since during the first few seconds before he was fully awaken, he would think daddy was still there, waiting for him downstairs with a bowl of cereal and a cup of orange juice.

And then he would remember, and he would suffer the initial blow all over again. The feeling was like drowning in dark water. He came up for air, but before the air could fill his lungs, he would be pushed back into reality as he sputtered and choked.

Dylan decided to be angry at everyone.

The closest person to him had to face his anger full on, of course. He hated his mom because she seemed to hold it together. She told him it was okay to cry but she never cried herself. She took it so well, that even though he knew it was untrue, he felt as if she didn't care as much as she should.

He hated all the relatives who actually did cry at the funeral. How did those people, who saw them only once a year, have the right to act like they were robbed of something? They would attend the event, eat the food, go home, and sleep it off, while he and his mom were the ones that had to deal with it, every waking minute as well as in their nightmares.

He hated his best friend Sean, because he had cried in front of him a few times when the pain got too overbearing, and Sean never knew what to say. Dylan didn't blame him, deep down he didn't, and he knew it was too much to ask, but whenever Sean acted panicky at his tears, he just wanted to punch him.

He hated his other friend Janet, because Janet acted too natural. She would ignore the problem and ask him to hang out as if everything was the same, as if the biggest issue in their lives right now was what they should have for lunch. When she asked his opinion on whether fries went better with ketchup or mustard, he felt like dumping all the fries on the floor.

(He was a little less angry at her, however, because she held his hand during the memorial service. It was a small thing but Dylan remembered.)

He hated the teachers, especially when they suggested he see the counselor and talk about his feelings. It did not help. He kept his mouth shut and sat through the session, smoldering in hot anger, like a turkey in the oven during Thanksgiving. In his mind he assembled and rearranged all the swear words he could think of, trying to come up with the most offensive phrase to offer them should they force him to talk.

He hated the bully on the school bus, but actually he hated him way before that. Bully picked on someone new every other week, like he was choosing the best fruit at the grocery store. His twisted interest could be sparked by a variety of things, be it a foreign accent, big ears, a funny walk, a rare name—anything.

Every morning Dylan and Sean boarded the school bus and kept their heads low. Dylan was battling with his acne problems and Sean was the brainy, scrawny kid with braces, which were completely normal things, but under the ruling of this middle school anarchist, they suddenly became things they should be careful about.

Bully had been testing and selecting a candidate of permanent harassment for months when he finally made his grand decision—a pale kid with a high-pitched voice, whose real name was Martin but was more often referred to as freak.

Dylan didn't remember who started it, but it became a morning ritual for Martin to have his book bag snatched out of his hand and tossed around. It was like a game of reverse dodge ball with him being the only one on his team, and every time his bag was thrown across the aisle, it was accompanied by something mean.

Martin had no friend but a string of names that always stayed by his side.

Freak.

Pig.

Retard.

Loser.

This time, Martin's bag landed in Dylan's lap. The kid reached out, barely meeting his eyes, and he reminded Dylan of an insect that had its wings torn off for no particular reason at all.

Dylan looked up and saw Bully watching him. A muscle twitched in Bully's jaw, and that moment he resembled a bulldog. A vicious, hungry canine that could fly across the bus and bite him if he chose the wrong move.

The bag flew out of his hand. "Weirdo," Dylan muttered, loud enough for Bully to hear, who nodded his approval across the aisle.

No, Bully wasn't the dog. Dylan was the dog. He was a dog owned by Bully.

Martin scurried off after his bag and let out a small whimper.

And Dylan decided that he hated himself.