Takes One

It wasn’t supposed to end like this. 
This wasn’t supposed to happen. 
What was supposed to be a triumphant, 
And a heartfelt victory, 
Was soiled by iron and the smell of loss. 

It was a Tuesday of late spring, 
The sun had been melting everything, 
The chocolate that was saved for lunch. 
The masses of bodies shoved inside classrooms too small, 
And their patience of being in captivity. 

It was a common occurrence. 
What do you get when you shove, 
A horde of constantly changing youth, 
Into a small area for years of their life? 
There will be fights. 

Fights over disagreements. 
Fights over a lover’s favor, 
Fights over the last cookie. 
Fights over a bully’s actions reaching a breaking point. 
Care to guess which happened that day? 

Jasper was a typical sort of ruffian. 
Talented in basketball, 
Rather decent looking, 
Was popular with some of his peers, 
But had a noxious disposition, 
That went beyond not using deodorant. 

Always had to be the center of attention. 
Always had to prove his superiority. 
Always had to make someone else feel inferior. 
He had an ego that begged for attention, 
That neither parent could really give him, 
Poisoned to use power for sloppiness. 

Byron was a typical sort of introvert. 
Talented when it came to the arts. 
Plainly okay looking. 
Was rather neglected by his peers, 
But opposition always froze him, 
No freezer necessary. 

To Jasper, 
Byron was perfect for him, 
For showing off a status, 
That would be irrelevant 
In another year or so, 
Give or take. 

To Byron, 
Jasper was perfect for him, 
For having an excuse to run, 
In a technological age, 
Where chairs and screens reign supreme, 
He knows the joys of keeping in shape now. 

Neither of the parents really questioned it. 

Why did the job-fearing Jasper, 
Always had money? 
Who cares!? 
That scholarship was on the horizon! 

Why did the people-avoiding Byron, 
Always had bruises on his arms? 
Who cares!? 
Should have been watching what he said. 

No hope for intervention. 
No hope for prevention. 
No hope for redemption. 

Only hope left for this conflict: 

Resolution. 

Senior classrooms were on the second floor. 
The school was built so that traversing, 
Meant going outdoors to and fro your location. 
It meant peering down to the collection, 
Of stone and concrete, 
On the bottom floor, 
With only a rusty railing for safety. 

It was a period shift, 
Hordes of teenagers shoving and shuffling, 
Trying to get to another classroom, 
So that when it happened, 
Hardly anyone noticed. 
That fatal nudge. 

A king sat upon a throne. 
It groaned and creaked, 
Under his weight, 
Threatening to spill, 
But the king moonlights as a fool, 
Refusing to budge until the expected happened. 

It was funny. 
How engrossed one can be, 
In their own daily routine. 
That when a wrench is thrown 
And slaps you with terror, 
You truly have no idea what to do. 

Screams penetrated the area. 
Traumatized youth pushing and shoving, 
To see the star of the show, 
To avoid the falling star. 
Teachers ran out to try and quell. 

And one merely looked dumbfounded. 
He was bad, yes? 
He hurt him so much, yes? 
He was rotten, yes? 
So why did people care so much? 
Why were they trying to help him? 
Why was he being held down? 

That day was the resolution. 
Two youths had met their fate. 
One to become one with nature. 
Forever in darkness. 
The light rejects the other, 
But that wasn’t new.