Never A Martyr

• Dylan Rielly, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2013

Who would even care? I bet nobody would even come to my funeral, the torment that they had put me through, I can’t do anything about, just to jump. The menacing sounds of a bad neighbourhood around me didn’t exactly calm my nerves.
Something I could see out the corner of my eye had stopped me, a man who was limping over to the edge. “Why would you do this young man, I am homeless and even I take what I have for granted”, his tone lowered me down from the rail, but it suddenly changed when I was face to face with him, “I don’t like what I have been put through, but when life pushes you against a wall you retaliate!” It was a dark strategy, but it had worked and my guard had been lowered. He then took his chance and drove the blade deep into my gut.
This moment was going to be critical in deciding my limited future. My judgement was that I had to retaliate. I lunged at him, my fists landing bone-breaking blows square in his face.
Blood trickled down from his nose. This was my opportunity. I was probably going to die. So why not take someone down with me? I took his already battered face and repeatedly slammed it against the pillar of the bridge. It felt good. It was the satisfaction of his skull being destroyed against the concrete. I knew it was sadistic, but all of the rage that had been building up inside of me from my upbringing was being released.
I kicked his knee as hard as I could. It buckled back. He fell down instantly and screamed, “Please don’t kill me, I won’t tell anyone, please!”
His pleas were futile. I gave him the final words he would ever hear, “My back was against the wall”
I threw him onto the ground. His forehead was leaning on the curb. With fifteen years of built up rage, I stomped. The aftermath was more horrific than anything could be compared to; it was proof of how fragile a human being’s existence can be.
It only then occurred to me, I‘d just committed a crime that I could not come back from, and the only path was deeper into the void. The adrenaline that I felt pulsing through me had worn off. I realised that I still had an open flesh wound gaping from my body. I also realised that I if I went to the hospital, I could be charged with murder. This feeling was of one of loneliness: no one would be there to help me ever again. Then, why would they? Even if I was never found to be a killer, help would never come. So, like an infant to a teat, a man to his dog, I had to let go, of life, of everything.