Sticks and Stones
By J. Elizabeth Dowell

Sticks and stones may break my bones...
But words will never hurt me...

You think it’s funny.

You think it’s funny to pick on the artsy kid in class; to call him a faggot, a retard, a fatso, to act like he’s got some kind of disease. You think it’s funny how he doesn’t react—but you know he hears, you know he does, he’s just doing his best to be a bigger person. And you think it’s funny. Don’t you?

Wait. Wait one minute, you say. They’re just words, and words don’t hurt anybody, right? Sticks and stones, right?

Maybe that’s true. But what about when you throw chewed up gum and spitballs at him in class, that’s a hoot, too, isn’t it? Watching him squirm and go red would give anyone the giggles, I'm sure, and when he tries to throw stuff back and misses? Priceless. What was even better was that stupid haircut he came to school with the next day, because there was no other way to get the gum out of his hair.

But it’s all in good fun, you protest, because after all, we’re not hurting him.

No?

Well what about that one time, when he was walking home, and you started hitting and kicking him? It was hilarious when he fell over, it must have been, you did laugh, didn’t you? And when he started crying after you ripped up all his sketches...that must’ve been just great.

Okay, you’re saying, maybe that was a little harsh, but you need something for entertainment, and hey, you gotta impress the guys! No big deal. He can draw more sketches, can’t he, and those bruises? Give ’em a few days and they’ll heal right up.

Besides, it was funny.

So let me ask you this...

Was it still funny when he came to school with a gun?

Were you laughing when you got out your cellphone, and your hands were shaking too badly to dial nine-one-one? Was it funny watching him kill off "the guys" one by one as the blood splattered on your shirt? What about when your cousin got two shots through the shoulder? Tell me. Was it still funny then?

Was it?

Strange, but I don’t think anyone was laughing then.

And there wasn’t a smile on your face, when he had that gun pointed at your head, with the cold metal digging into your skin, when he was just standing there shaking and crying, no, he was sobbing, and you were too, you were pleading for your life and apologizing and everything like the coward you are—not that it mattered, because even when he did fire, he was out of bullets. You lived, but only because you were lucky. Tell me, am I wrong? Am I?

But hey...when he cried before, you laughed, right? Because it was funny. He sure was crying when he had that gun.

Where was all your damn laughing then?

Where was all your snickering and elbowing and grinning when he ran home crying? Why weren’t you laughing? You’d think if you found tears funny once, you’d find them funny all the time. You’d laugh at all of them.

Including mine.

Was it still funny when I came home from kindergarten to find my older brother sprawled all over the couch, with his blood and brains all over everything? Were you laughing when I screamed and ran out of the house, when they finally found me shaking and crying my eyes out at the park at three in the morning?

You know, not one person cracked a smile at the funeral. The words fag, retard, or fatty didn’t come out of anyone’s mouth then.

Why not? Did something, maybe, give you a change of heart?

Whoever made up that stupid saying, the one about sticks and stones, they were wrong, dead wrong, because words do hurt, and sometimes, lots of times, words can turn into something much worse, much uglier than anything you ever want to imagine, if the words don’t stop.

Picking on people? It isn’t funny. It’s hurtful. It’s cruel.

It’s wrong.

At least, that’s what my brother thought.

But you never really cared much about what my brother thought, now did you?

Author's Notes: I hope tis story has touched you in some way. If you likd this story, please help me out by checking out my other stories, called "Chips" and "Walking on Water". I would be very grateful.