Chapter Text
I was in 6th grade, growing up pretty much unchanged from what I was in my younger childhood years. I still had the spirit of a young revolutionary, waiting to be set free, but I continued to imprison it and fed it books and music to calm it down. It was rather inconvenient to set it free and risk becoming a female copy of my brother. My childish ego still didn't let me engage in acts of rebellion against the system.
During break time from school, as was my loner tradition, I would hide in a corner and read whichever book I had with me at the time. In my hands was a copy of "Diary of a Writer" by the Russian novelist Fyodor Dostoevsky, a copy which I still hold on my bookshelf somewhere. It offered guidance on what was about to come in my adolescence.
My brother, Bart, had already started to engage in pubescent sentimentalism. At that time, he was in a battle of conquering the heart of Sherri (or Terri? My memory might be fooling me on this one). He started going to the gym despite Mom's orders not to go to such a place due to possible damage during his developmental stage. He claimed to be getting buff and started wearing more revealing clothes at school to show off his progress to the girls. He got away with it due to the double standard of boys dressing like that while girls couldn't, a typical patriarchal hypocrisy coming from Mr. Skinner.
His best friend, Milhouse, wasn't any different. However, he was dealing with his recent growth and unknown feelings differently. His love for me increased in a way that was twice as disturbing. He would constantly write letters to me, give me chocolates, and flowers, and even wrote my name on his arm with a pen (thankfully, it was temporary).
His actions are obviously inexcusable, as he dehumanized my feelings and engaged in borderline stalking. However, it's worth analyzing the tragedy that was Milhouse. He had divorced parents, a best friend who acted more like a boss to him, and an overall lonely life that led him to constantly seek warmth and affection. He projected this obsessive romantic attraction towards me, which intensified with his hormonal changes during what is typically the worst period of someone's life. The lack of awareness, impulsiveness, and the absence of a strong parental figure all contributed to the catastrophe that was Milhouse—a lonely pre-teen who tried his best to end his loneliness through the sister of his best friend.
I was tired of his advances. What used to make me blush when I was 8 years old had turned into something that made my life even more uncomfortable. As an 11-year-old just starting to understand these feelings, I still couldn't comprehend how someone could hold such a fixation towards me and never give up despite all the rejections he faced. He was like a fearless soldier with only one goal: conquering my heart.
That advance was the last one I would endure. Milhouse came to my usual hiding spot for reading and rudely took the book from my hand, abruptly closing it. There is nothing ruder to do to a bookworm than that. I was deeply focused on what I was reading, and the abrupt interruption of the reading experience angered me. The second I saw his pubescent face, with zits, a developing mustache, and a voice with an inconsistent pitch, my blood started to boil. My face turned red like a fresh tomato in that exact second. I had enough of this; it was the last straw in my head. I stood up to him before he could say his first word or make his next cheesy romantic advances.
Now, my memory fails me on what I actually said to him. It's now a mix of throwaway words. I'm sure no one who was close to where this event took place remembers those exact words or the exact form in which I said them. We are all getting older and older, but what my brain recalls are the phrases "[...] No one will ever love you [...]" and comments about his nose like "[...] This bee-stung nose will block any sort of love that anyone will ever feel towards you [...]" but the phrase that was so cruel and fixated on my memory since that day was "[...] If neither of your parents loves you, why should I carry this burden? [...]"
It's obvious that such cruel and heavy words are common for a 6th grader to say, but the pure and unfiltered hatred and cruelty of them make me tremble with guilt. How could I, someone who defends peace and other people's rights, say that to someone, even if that someone annoyed me deeply? I remember I would shame my now-husband, Nelson, for inflicting heartless acts of violence and domination towards weaker students, from wedgies to extremely violent beatings that would leave a poor boy with broken arms and a bleeding nose. What I did to Milhouse was similar to what Nelson would do to these students because violence is way more complex than just beating up someone. Insulting someone is an act of violence; berating someone is an act of violence; not letting someone be free is an act of violence. The insults I proclaimed at Milhouse had a similar infliction of pain to Nelson's punches, but the harm done by a punch can be easily healed by a visit to the hospital (with exorbitant abusive bills, of course). However, a word punch like telling someone that no one will ever love them is something that is never healed, especially when said to a developing mind like Milhouse's.
Needless to say, Van Houten was crying, in a way that I never saw him cry before. Of course, I did see him cry since he was one of the bullies' favorite punching bags, but the whines of physical pain couldn't compare to the weeping of psychological pain. It was a display of the complexities of violence. His teary eyes made his glasses fill with fog, making him unable to see a thing. He abruptly ran away, with no thoughts on his mind other than the despair of being the target of such cruel rejection. He dropped my book on the way, and as I got up from the floor and sat back down to continue my reading, I heard car sounds and the brief screams of a pubescent boy that were quickly silenced.
It was a horrible design decision to keep the schoolyard with access to the roads, especially for a middle school.
Everyone heard his screams and rushed to see him, including Principal Skinner and Superintendent Chalmers. They were all gathered to see what had happened to him. I was the last one and ended up far behind the huge crowd of curious eyes.
I remember all the children crying, the Superintendent calling the cops and the ambulances, the driver having a panic attack. All those sounds mashed together into a horrible mixture of dread.
I caused the death of a boy who had a crush on me.