~~Group Therapy~~

~~~~3~~~~

Stanley Uris' log. Date: May 15th, 2007.

Today was an..... Alright day. I didn't have a fit, but I was definitely irked all day. I noticed that lockers 122-136 are slightly lopsided. I tried using the strategies Mr. Chan talked about with me, but I still ended up leaning against them all lunch break. They didn't move. They never do. What is wrong with me? Well, I know what, but why me? I could have been a normal kid, but my stupid brain decides to screw everything up. Imagine me sighing here. Wait, no. I'm the only one reading this. Why did I write this in pen? I can't erase it. Ugh.

I close the journal and place in the middle of my stack, which is piled from largest to smallest. Leaning back in my chair, I count the books in the stack. Still 8. My chair spins around under me, laying out the perfect view of my orderly room. Bed made, clothes in dresser, nothing on the floor but a rug, everything in its place. This place is void of all imagination in the eyes of anybody but me. I see everything I've ever accomplished in here. Getting everything in my closet. Making my first friend. I straighten the (slightly askew) framed picture of Eddie and I, smiling in nostalgia. He was freaking out because the bullies took his fanny pack. His breathing was becoming limited. I allow myself to become submerged in the memory.

"P-*wheeze*-lease. I *wheeze* need that." He fell to his knees, struggling to breathe. A few of the bullies looked uneasy, glancing at their ringleader. The leader, Henry Bowers, had a malicious glint in his eyes.

"Want this back? You'll have to get it back, shortcake." A sly smile crossed his face as he looked at the lockers. The tops were much taller than Eddie. His biceps tensed as he raised his arm. It was then that I decided to reveal myself from my hiding place behind the corner of the hall.

"I swear to God, Bowers. This kid is dying. If you throw it, you're a murderer at the sad age of 11. Give me the bag, and I won't tell anyone what happened." A few of the kids bolted, surprised at my sudden arrival. Only Bowers and a kid named Patrick Hockstetter stayed.

"What's it to you?" Bowers growled, pulling his switchblade out of his pocket. Eddie's gasps grew fainter and more spaced out. Patrick grabbed Henry's arm, and I noticed he was blushing slightly. Intriguing.

"Henry, no. This is pointless. We've scared these losers enough. I think we can give the bag back. Do you really want to be a murderer now? You've got plenty of years ahead of you for that." He relinquished his hold on Bowers' arm as the bag was lowered. A glare was sent my way, along with a look of extreme indecision. After what felt like forever, he threw the bag in Eddie's face.

"This never happened, got it?" I nod, and he disappears into the abyss. I fish Eddie's inhaler out of his fanny pack, handing it to him. Hell if I know how to use one. He takes the cap off, shaking it then sticking it in his mouth. After taking a few puffs, he looks up at me, tears in his eyes.

"Go away. Don't look at me. I'm so goddamn pathetic." I smile down at him. This tiny ball of human thinks he's pathetic? He's right, but he's got reason to. He just almost died.

"It's fine. I've seen worse. Those assholes certainly get around. Here, sit up." I take his cold hand, pulling him up. "I'm Stan."

Of course I told some adults what happened! The kid almost DIED. Henry still tries to get us, but I think he realizes my small power.