This Boy Cries

He started screaming. He felt a hot pressure in his leg. Tears swelled up in his eyes. He didn't want this to happen. He cried, he cried very hard. He screamed for him to stop but it didn't help at all. Another pain started in his other leg. He screamed again, hoping someone would hear, half knowing that no one would. He felt a fist punching away at his gut.

"Shut up!" the other boy yelled, "Boys don't cry! What are you, a girl?"

There were two of them. One was holding him down, god knows what the other one was doing. He couldn't lift his head up to see. He was put into an awkward headlock. He was much smaller than both of them, but the one holding him was the bigger of the two. He didn't know what they were doing this for, most likely because he was the closest person to them, maybe he gave them a wrong look. He didn't know, he just wanted them to stop.

The boy tried to stop crying. He thought they would go away if he did. He could feel the tears holding back, but it was only temporary. He felt the salty water drip down his face. He could feel jabs in his leg, a knife maybe or some kind of blade. He cut deep into him each time. He struggled, but he was too weak.

"Greg, look, he's trying to fight back. Look, look," the one holding him yelled, "Come on punk, try to get up. Oh, right, you can't."

He would have given anything at that moment to have one fist open, just for one quick smack, but they were too big. He was only 12 and they were probably two years older than he was.

He didn't recognize the one on top of him. He probably didn't go to his school. He didn't know anyone named Greg, either. They might not even live here. He wanted to get a look at the other one, just one look.

Another pain in his leg, smaller this time. He wanted this to be over. He sobbed with every stab. He tried to lift his arm, realizing that it was useless. He cried, the tears would't stop coming. He started to scream, but no one heard.

Another stab, this time deep. The big one laughed. The boy cried, wanting to get out. He started to flail, started to kick. This surprised Greg.

"Man, hold him still, I cant do this," he stabbed again. He hit something in his leg, cutting it badly. He screamed louder than he had before, a lot louder. He was punched in the gut.

"Kid, stop shouting," the big one yelled, "we don't want to get caught!"

Then came the sound of the police. It was still distant, but it was surly the police. The boy thought he had never heard a more heavenly noise. He sat still and stopped resisting. The boys holding him heard it too. They started to run, shouting at each other, laughing.

He just lay there, hoping they would find him.

Everything went dark. The tears had stopped too.


Eight years had passed. He sat in his room for hours. He lived in his father's house because he didn't have the money for college. His injuries had consumed a large amount of his dad's income. He couldn't work, either. Not in his condition.

After the police found him he was taken to a hospital. There, he learned that the wounds he had received had ruptured nerves in his knee, making both of them completely useless. When he found out, he held his mother's hand. She embraced him, crying. She cried very hard.

He learned to cope with his disability. He used a wheelchair to go anywhere. The kids at his school were kind about it, though later, people had made jokes and rumors about his disability. They would say it wasn't just his legs that were disabled, or would claim to know who did it to him. He hated them, all of them. He didn't need friends, he didn't need anyone. Well, except his mother. He needed her more than anyone. She showed him love and understanding when other people showed pity and annoyance. He loved her and no one else.

He couldn't hold the tears when she died. It was a car accident. She must have taken her eyes off the road for just a second, or the other guy was on his phone. Whatever it was, they collided. The impact had killed her almost immediately. The man on his phone had survived. He lived while the perfect woman had died.
He hated him. More than the kids at school, more than those boys, more than he hated himself. He hated him more than anyone, everyone, besides his father.

At the funeral, the boy was quiet. He didn't talk to anyone, listen to anyone, or even look at them. He didn't want to listen to the sermon and he didn't want to speak to his mother. He couldn't bear to look into the casket and see her lying dead. He didn't need the reassurance.

His father came to sit by him once the sermon had started. Before the first word was even spoken, tears had started to crawl down his face. He wept. He wept because he missed his mother, because he missed his false sense of friends, because he missed his legs. The tears had not stopped.

His father elbowed him. He shook his head at his son's weeping, but the boy had not stopped. He cried, and he didn't care. The father gave him a look of disgust and looked away. His father had not shed a tear.

After the sermon was over, they went home. In the car, they were silent. Not a word was spoken between the two of them. The boy didn'tt mind the silence, though he could see it made his father uncomfortable. He liked that. It made him feel good to know that a man who wouldn't cry for his own wife dying was at least made unsettled.

They pulled up to their house. The boy opened the door to leave, but his father made him sit. He sighed.

"Son, you made a real embarrassment of yourself and me back there."

The boy didn't look at him. He didn't want to look at him.

"You know what you did, right?"

The boy nodded, though he disagreed with him completely.

"You know, real men don't cry. You shouldn't, it's not okay."

He closed his eyes, wishing he would just stop talking to him.

"Hey, hey," his dad said, "Look at me. Look at me!"

The boy didn't look at him. He was disgusted with him. He hated him and he didn't deserve it.

"Look at me, you little ass."

The boy started out the car, not looking back. His father grabbed his arm. He pulled him back in. He hit him across the face. When he didn't look up, his father hit him again and again and again.

The boy didn't shed one tear.


Eight years he sat in his room alone. Eight years he had wished he was someone different. Eight long years he had wanted to die.
This was against everything he believed in, but he wanted it, wanted it more than anything he had every wanted something. He wanted it more than he wanted his legs. He wanted it more than he wanted his friends. He wanted it more than he wanted to look at his mother in the face and tell her he loved her.

He wanted it. He thought now would be the time to get it.
In the desk next to his bed, he kept a knife. It was the same knife they found next to him after he had been beaten. He kept it there; thinking he could just end it, end it the same way it started. With one knife, in and out, quickly. He didn't even have to think, just do it. His dad would find him lying there when he came in with the wheelchair. His father didn't trust him with it, thinking he might leave.

He opened his desk drawer, reaching inside. He felt the cool steel between his forefingers. He wrapped his hand around it, slowly pulling it out. He was crying, tears rolling down his face. He couldn't tell whether they were tears of sadness or of joy, but it didn't matter. He knew this was the time.

He laid the knife next to him then reached into the drawer again. He felt around, and pulled out a few sheets of paper. He looked over the words and made sure everything was writing. A tear had fallen on one of the sheets, making it dark and wrinkled. He laid it on top his desk.

He picked up the knife, closing his eyes. He felt for his heart, knowing right where the knife should go. Tears edged from under his eyes. He gasped a breathe of air, sobbing.

Under his breath he started to mumble. He said the same thing over and over, louder every time.

He whispered, "This boy cries."

Who is this boy, this boy that killed himself? Who is this boy that cries?

The knife went in.

I'm this boy.

Everything went dark.

The tears had stopped.