Trying to remember the details of this story is tough for me. Not because I have a poor memory or because I blocked the memory out of my mind, though. I think it’s because I was so delusional back then that the majority of my reality was a fantasy my mind created for itself.
In fact, there are only a few details from that day that I can remember clearly. Like how cold the steal was of the baseball diamond fence. I remember all the tissues that the boy was holding against his bloody nose and how it would’ve been more effective for him to stop the bleeding if he had folded the tissues instead of just crumpling them all messily. I remember an older mans infuriated bloodshot eyes and how hilarious I thought they were. I remember how quiet the car was and how odd it was that there were fewer cars on the street when you leave school before the final bell. The last clear image I can see in my mind, I can picture in perfect detail, in so much detail that one might even call it an HD memory. The final image I can recall is of my dear mother sitting in a chair next to me with a drained expression worn over her face and body; I remember the words she said to me too: “you just don’t get it, do you?”
I don’t know how old I was but it must’ve occurred around the start elementary school. I remember being alone and walking up to a boy and his friend on the playground. The boy’s name was the same as mine, Andrew. This is where the fence comes in. I walked up to one side of the baseball diamond fence and gripped the cold steal with my fragile fingers and inhaled the crisp air. It must’ve been late fall since the temperature was so low and there hadn’t been any snow on the ground. I could see the boy and his friend through the wiry metal I had been holding. They approached the fence and we must’ve had a conversation of sorts. I have no recollection of there being a quarrel or any aggressive tone in those moments. The boy opposite of the fence and I had then begun to shake the fence as if it were some kind of sideways trampoline meant to be played with. The bell then rang and we both returned to our classes. He was not in the same class as me.
After a few short minutes of sitting at my desk, the teacher received a phone call. To my surprise, she ordered me to go directly to the principal’s office. This was not something new for me. I had been to the principles office multiple times and knew the protocol for this situation quite well. I walked slowly imagining what trouble I had gotten myself into. I was also probably imagining myself to be some kind of superhero too, like Batman.
Upon entering the reception area for my principal, I saw the boy, Andrew, and he had a disgusting bloody mess coming from his nose. He was doing a horrible job at keeping his face clean and I knew it would’ve been more effective if he had folded the tissues he was using instead of mindlessly pressing crumpled tissues against his nose, lips, and chin. I thought the boy must’ve been pretty dumb and paid little attention to it. The secretary then abruptly ordered me to sit down.
A few short moments later, the principal, Mr. Sandtoast, sternly looked at me, pointed into his office, and said, “get in here, now!”
I recall him yelling and being really close to my face. So close that I could memorize the details of his bloodshot eyes and scruffy black facial hair. I don’t remember a thing he said. I couldn’t stop chuckling and this seemed to only make him angrier. I thought it was hilarious. Here’s this fully-grown man with me in his office and he appeared to be throwing a wild temper tantrum with yours truly as his audience. I bit the inside of my cheeks and pinched the skin on the top of my thighs to stop myself from smiling. It was no use.
Mr. Sandtoast then grabbed the telephone on his desk, dialed my parents, and handed me the phone. I was to tell them that I needed to be picked up and that I was in some kind of trouble. As soon as the voice of my father came through the phone, I began to cry. I told him he needed to come get me and that the principal was mad at me.
It wasn’t my dad who showed up, though. It was my loving mother. Seeing her when I was in trouble usually made me cry very hard. I hated when she was disappointed in me and crying seemed to subdue her anger. I got in the car and we didn’t say a word to each other. It was extraordinarily quiet because there were so few cars on the road. It seemed odd to me that the streets were so quiet but, I thought it best not to ask my mother why. She didn’t appear to be interested in conversation.
When we got home I was glad that I was away from school and could spend the rest of my day in one of my favorite places. My mother pulled me into the living room which was right next to front door. She gave me a big warm hug and all the horrible feelings that the day had brought on vanished. I must’ve smiled when I looked up at her afterward because she started slowly shaking her head. The corner of her lip pulled back and she looked at me inquisitively. “Why do you always do this?” She said while sighing. “Do you know what your teachers say about you? They tell me that you’re a brilliant kid but you never apply yourself to the work they give you. They say you cause trouble for absolutely no reason and they don’t know what’s wrong with you.” She sighed again and looked away for a moment. “You just don’t get it, do you?” Her face looked completely exhausted and a genuine sadness filled the air of the house. Seeing my mother this upset, this time, pained me deeply.
I think that’s when I realized I was different. People saw the world very differently from how I did. I realized you have to act a certain way and do certain things. Life wasn’t an experience where you could do whatever you wanted, that’s not how it worked. Hurting someone was an important event that most people would remember clearly. Getting in trouble was something that made people feel bad and wasn’t supposed to be funny. Seeing your mom exhausted didn’t mean that you get reprimanded less; it meant that you broke her down to point where she didn’t know how to respond. That’s when I realized I was a sociopath.
