For You, Kyle

I drop the knife and bend down to look at the boy I just killed. Tears had stopped rolling down my cheeks and nothing but a smile can be seen on my face. I run my fingers over the wound and admire his blood on my hand. I write a three-letter word on his chest in the red bile. The world should know and be warned before he does the same thing to them as he did to Kyle.

I woke up with a simple ignorance before I remembered what I had to do. I had a mission this morning. I quickly dressed, pulling a pair of ripped up blue jeans on over my boxers, lacing a black studded belt through the loops. I rummaged in the pile of clothes in my closet before, finally, finding my favorite t-shirt. It was a black shirt with a vivid drawing of the cross Christ was crucified on burning. Jesus was screaming. I pulled the shirt down over my black and red highlighted hair.

I grabbed the knife, a Christmas gift from my brother, from the shelf, leaving my old one behind. This was not a job for the old knife. Vengeance had to be paid with a brother’s love. I left the house quickly, not even taking time to visit another room of the house. I wasn’t intending on going to school today. I knew I’d never make it and I see now that my prediction came true.

My old army boots took me closer to the corner of Sherwood Street and Washington Road where I waited for the bus on days I went to school. I looked at my watch. 7:15. Perfect. I knew Matthew would be here shortly. We road the bus together; Matthew, Kyle, and myself.

I bent down and took a thick black permanent marker from my left boot and wrote DON’T on the red octagon of a stop sign. I eagerly waited for Matthew. It’s been awhile since I got into much trouble other than harmless vandalism.

Finally, he showed himself. He wore a sorrowful expression on his face and I almost pitied him for what I was about to do. It had to be done. I couldn’t let him continue living after what he’d done to Kyle. My brother killed himself because of Matthew. It was his fault and he would pay for it. I pushed my shaggy hair off my face as he approached. There was no room for mistakes.

“Deacon, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I never meant for him to get hurt.” His voice begged for my forgiveness.

The three of us have been rather close for several years. It was recently called to my attention that Kyle and Matthew were a lot closer than any one had thought. I didn’t even know until Kyle was found hanging from a beam in the basement by his belt. I don’t really know anything about their relationship, just that they had one and Matthew ended it. Kyle loved him, but Matthew ended it. It was too much for my brother.

I didn’t get to spend much time with Kyle over the last few years, spending time in and out of the Westerberg Hall for Troubled Young Men and other disciple camps. I haven’t been home much since Mom remarried and when I am home, I’m don’t spend much time with Kyle, because he’s usually spending time with Mom and Victor. There was a lot of times when just he and Matthew hung out and conveniently forgot to invite me along. I should’ve caught on, but I never did. I just figured they’d grown closer since I’d been gone so much with getting into trouble.

I looked at Matthew through cold grey eyes. I couldn’t believe he said that. What did he think would happen?

“Take it off,” I commanded. Matthew looked at me confused and dumbfounded. “Take it off!” I yelled at him. My face grew red and hot. I refused to lose control. There was no room for errors. I had to do it and do it right.

“What?” Matthew asked, startled.

“Take off your shirt,” I ordered again.

He wore a blue button-down shirt with designs in the blue intended to resemble waves and there were palm trees along the bottom.

“What? No—” he began to protest and then his eyes grew a little wider as I pulled the knife from my jeans. “Deac? What are you doing?”

“Take it off,” I aggressively ordered as I opened the knife.

I knew he wouldn’t run from me. It was evident he was terrified, but I knew he still trusted me. I’ve done some crazy things in the past, but nothing like killing someone.

Matthew unbuttoned the shirt, slid it off of his shoulders and held it out to me, frightened and confused. I took the shirt and threw it to the side, holding the knife toward him the entire time. I took a step closer.

“Deacon, what’s going on?”

“You bastard!” I screamed at him. I couldn’t take it. I let my emotions rule over me. My face was red, tears slowly streaming down my cheeks. “He wouldn’t be dead if it wasn’t for you.” My voice was hoarse and cracked as I spoke.

“Oh Dee,” he began, but I didn’t let him get any further.

“It’s your fault; you turned him. You turned my brother into a fag! Then you left him. I didn’t even know until he killed himself.” I wiped at the tears on my face. “He loved you! I never even knew. All this time and I didn’t even know. He’s my brother! And he loved you! And now he’s dead, because of you!” I gasped for air as I allowed the knife at my side to slowly lower. “Do you even know what it said? It said: ‘Tell Matthew I’m sorry and I’ll always love him. But I’m not strong enough. Kyle.’ He shouldn’t have to be the one who’s sorry. You are.” I looked down for a moment. “You are,” I repeated softly.

“I am sorry, Deacon. I’m truly sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” Matthew replied softly, begging for my forgiveness again.


The knife was at my side; my finger tips delicately wrapped around the handle, barely keeping it from crashing to the sidewalk below. Matthew took advantage of this and stepped forward to hug me. I hate it when people touch me, but I allowed it. I had just lost my brother and my best friend and no one ever felt sorry for a juvenile delinquent like me.

“It’s okay, Dee,” he softly said as held me.

I came crashing back reality and tightened my grip on the black handle, bringing it back in my hand.

“No, it’s not!” I muttered in his ear, my teeth grinding against each other in angst.

He pulled his head back to look at my face. There was a second of confusion and horror before the four inch blade found its way deep in Matthew’s chest. It pierced his right lung under his arm and he gasped for air before falling to the sidewalk. I watched with a sadistic smile as he coughed up blood, took a few agonizing breaths, and gasped for air before dying.

I stand over Matthew Hewes with a sadistic grin upon my face. His limp body slowly loses blood as the last signs of life escape him. My hand still loosely holds onto the black handle leading up to its four-inch blade, now covered in Matthew’s sweet, red nectar.

I drop the knife and bend down to look at the boy I just killed. Tears had stopped rolling down my cheeks and nothing but a smile can be seen on my face. I run my fingers over the wound and admire his blood on my hand. I write a three-letter word on his chest in the red bile. The world should know and be warned before he does the same thing to them as he did to Kyle.

I write FAG on his warm chest with cold blood. I stand up and admire my work. I remark upon beauty of vengeance.

“For you, Kyle,” I whisper to no one.

The familiar and welcoming sounds of sirens fill my ears and an ambulance and other officers arrive. A nearby neighbor saw the quarrel between Matthew and myself and had called the police. I’m cuffed, read my rights, and led to the backseat of a cop car. I watch with amusement as the paramedics tend to Matthew and load him into the ambulance. Another sight catches my attention.

The school bus arrives and drives by, not stopping to see if anyone needed a pick-up. I shake my hair from my eyes and look out of the window of the cop car into the windows of the bus, kids’ faces pressed against the glass. I smile seductively at their gaping faces as they recognize me.