Rose... he, rose... who rose? I rose, no... wait... He rose. Jack Wells (who is me, he is me), I rose from my seat wondering where? Where was Johnny? Johnny was the kid that sat next to me in History class.... was... Johnny? An announcement boomed across the building on the oddly loud speakers, "Teachers and Students, please pardon this interruption, there will be a short assembly honoring Johnathan Zackston, who devastatingly took his own life this past weekend, all students and staff are encouraged to-".... Wait... What? Johnny? Oh my god... why would he... he took his life? He seemed so happy. I'm sorry, I-I didn't mean to... I called him a faggot for wearing makeup on Friday. And others were laughing... they were laughing at something as stupid as that word? That. Word. I saw him running to the bathroom crying. Crying... yes, Jack... crying. I had never seen Johnny cry. Let me tell you, it wasn't a great thing to see. Maybe.... I don't know. I mean, I wasn't trying to be an asshole. Or was I? It kind of hurt to see him cry, yet I felt so empowered and happy when I was shouting those hateful things at him. Maybe the empowered feeling pushed away that feeling of not wanting to hurt someone's feelings to make me feel good about myself.
