Why do teenagers need to be such assholes?
I guess I was one as well, but that was so long ago, it feels like my memories of that time are of a completely different person. But I at least had some semblance of decency. Even with all those swirling, hormonal moods, the angst, the need to fit in, all that dumb shit, I still held a view - although irrevocably naive - of what’s right and what’s wrong. And fucking with the dead is wrong.
But teens these days just don’t seem to have that conviction. They’re different. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s society, maybe it’s the way they’re taught, maybe it’s a byproduct of the age of information. For whatever reason, they simply haven’t inherited certain ideas.
There have been ongoing reports of a group of them going to a certain cemetery to… nobody really knows, exactly. To fuck around, I guess. Get drunk. They leave the place trashed, with broken glass bottles everywhere, gravestones kicked to the ground, buildings tagged with lazy “artwork.” One time a groundskeeper got assaulted when he tried to get them to leave. And of course, whenever the cops are called, they’re long gone by the time they get there. There have apparently been videos circulating of them vandalizing gravestones, and even breaking into a chapel.
Now, maybe I wouldn’t give that much of a shit about this were it not for an undeniably selfish reason: my brother is buried in that graveyard. I like to visit him, and the thought that some kids might be desecrating his grave, mocking his memory, well, it makes me angry.
My brother was just a year older than me, but you wouldn’t have doubted if I said he was five years my older. I on the other hand have always been a scrawny fuck. When we were in school together, I was an easy and obvious target for bullies, but he always had my back. I never resorted to violence, so whenever I got into a fight, I wouldn’t fight back. I couldn’t. But he could, and in those tumultuous, absurd times - although I hated to admit it - sometimes violence was the only answer. I was too naive to see that, and for so long, I resented him for it - for always using violence to resolve my problems. But as I got older, I became thankful. He did what he had to do, and he did it for me. He got into so much trouble just so I could survive the slaughterhouse that they call high school. I wished I’d told him that before he died.
As the reports started coming in, whenever I visited him I felt watched and on edge. I didn’t dare speak to him, to his memory, or even cry. It made me feel sick, twisting and knotting my stomach as my heart wished to be vulnerable and cradle the memory of my brother, but it couldn’t. That nagging thought that a bully would come and kick my legs out from underneath me, laughing at my little sissy moment, pertained. Maybe that’s trauma speaking. Doesn’t matter. The experience is tainted, and by what, some asshole kids who never had to face repercussions for their actions?
But who decides what repercussions they deserve?
A couple weeks ago I went to visit my brother again. It was evening, the winter’s dark-mouthed day already in full force. Usually I went earlier in the day, when it was still nice and light out, but when I parked my car and looked over the cemetery, everything looked perfect. Crisp, glistening snow documenting the footsteps of those who’d come to mourn and to remember. The celestial rows of black iron street lamps that seemed to ebb in the distance, illuminating the many paths that circled those we’d lost. The cross above the chapel, faint against the gray sky, reminding me not of religious zealotry, but of those gentle men and women who lay down to rest those lost to that which we call the end, giving each of them a fair and equal farewell. A calm swelled over me, and as I began to trek down the rightmost path, an older couple walked past me, giving me an approving nod, like they knew where I’d be going, and the hurt and love I’d be facing. I forgot all about those reports, and walked with my heart open, feeling no fear.
I thought of my brother as I walked, the snow holding my feet firmly as it crunched under my shoes. Memories I thought were forgotten flickered in my mind, painting pictures of us, just two brothers, playing in the first snow. Christmas eve, where we shared our toys through the night so we’d both get to play. My heart swelled with longing that seemed to not pursue darkness and regret, but a deep gratitude for the time we’d spent together.
Then a faint, clinking crash, followed by nasally hollering shattered the image. I focused my eyes, regressing back to reality, and saw shapes in the distance. Another faint crash scratched my ears, this one more aggressive than the one before. My shoulders hardened into rocks and my cold fingers tensed into fists, like dead spiders reeling back in their limbs. I realized what was happening.
They were here. And they’re throwing fucking bottles.
My steps became a blur as I approached them, the gray shapes quickly becoming enlarged and defined as my heart beat out of anger. There were at least five of them. They didn’t see me approach. My mind succumbed to rage, throttling all others senses. I’d never felt anger like that. I had no idea what I was going to do. I wasn’t in control.
Once I reached them, one of them heard me walking and turned around to face me. He was just a kid, maybe fifteen years old, his face slim and taut with a barely gray slice of mustache dirtying his clean, young skin. I stopped and looked at him, all the things I wanted to say boiling like bubbles, yet none bursting into words.
He beat me to it, and yelled at the group “Hey, someone’s here!”
The rest of them turned around, at first looking scared and ready to flee, but they quickly sensed that I was not a threat, and their demeanor became relaxed. Some of them held bottles, and from the smell I could gather it wasn’t soda that they were drinking.
From behind the kid who’d spoken to me emerged another one, this one older and broad-shouldered, holding the aura of a much larger man. But once his face penetrated the thick cone of yellow light, the illusion was shattered; his face held a baby-like quality, with chubby cheeks and a reddened nose, his ears small compared to the rest of his face and body. Like puberty had only hit his muscles and bodily proportions, leaving nothing for his boyish face. He was wearing a bright green beanie, which struck me as odd, since it’d be an easily identifiable piece of clothing to catch him by. But teenagers are dumb.
He approached me like someone who was ready to fight, heightened by the experience of never having lost one. I bet his sheer size made him a menace to the other kids, and frankly, it did send a long-forgotten shiver of real, violent danger down my spine, making my feet drag and sweating the palms of my hands.
“The fuck do you want, old man?” he asked me, a single disgusting drop of saliva shooting out of his mouth onto the corner of mine as he spoke. I wiped it off with the sleeve of my jacket as fright and rage battled inside me to determine my response. Surprisingly, neither won, and what came out of my mouth was the rehearsed speech of mature conflict resolution, the social requirement of the situation being met with the speed of lightning. “I’m just here to visit a grave. What’s going on here?”
The aspiring jock’s demeanor didn’t relent. He turned his head and gave the group a chuckle, then, with a twisted mockery said “Visiting graves, just like you. What the fuck’s it to you? We’d like to mourn in peace, so how about you move along.”
I hate to admit it, but it wasn’t a bad idea. I could walk along, feign ignorance, then once I was out of their sight I’d call the cops. They’d finally nail those fuckers. I let the idea bloom, thinking of where to walk and when to take my phone out. But then the thought was cut loose, and not of my own volition. I wasn’t fully aware of it, but some part of me was, and that part burned its way through everything else, sprinting to inform me of what was happening.
One of them was taking a piss on my brother’s grave, one hand on his crotch and one above his head, attempting a sore imitation of a bull rider.
He chuckled and hollered “Look guys! Yee-fucking-haw!”
The boy in front of me turned to look at him, visibly irritated by the drunken intermission to his tough-guy show. “Stop that you fucking idiot!” With the boy facing the other way and pure rage shaking my limbs at the sight of my brother’s grave being desecrated, my mind stopped, and my body began to act.
I kicked the boy in front of me on his knee, my heel digging into the joint with impressive force. I’d never resorted to violence. But in that moment, I was defending my brother, because he couldn’t do it himself. A final retribution, an unholy thank you for all the times he’d been there for me.
The boy shrieked, his voice cracking in a high pitched scream, stripping him of his macho act. He fell to the ground, clutching his leg. With him incapacitated, I sprinted towards the fucker that had pissed on my brother’s grave. His face became pure horror, and with piss still dribbling to the ground and his pants unbuckled, he turned and tried to run away, his pants barely holding on.
He took no more than three awkward steps before he faceplanted in the snow.
I grabbed the collar of his jacket with both hands, and with one swift movement lifted him up just enough to flip him to face me. He looked so scared, and somehow I knew that scaring him - scaring all of them - was all I needed to do. A real consequence that would make them think twice about coming back here. The rage mellowed out slightly, and I was ready to act out my part in this ridiculous play.
Just as I was about to yell at him, a loud thud shook my body, pushing the air out from my lungs. It was my turn to faceplant, and I barely avoided falling on the boy in front of me. The cold dark snow cracked around my face, and judging from the pain flaming at my backside, I surmised I had been kicked. I forced my arms to push my body up and turn to face my attacker, but just as I was getting up, I was kicked again. This time I landed on my back, and in front of me was the black outline of the older boy. I thought I’d kicked him pretty hard, but he seemed unfazed. Perhaps that’s why he dared to kick me - because he knew the adrenaline would kick in and he wouldn’t relent until he was finished with his opponent.
The boy next to me quickly got to his feet and scurried behind the older one like a puppy, holding his arm in what must’ve been a feigned injury. I’d barely touched him, especially not on his arm, so he was probably just trying to move along - to not go too far to appease his overlord jock friend.
The rest of them congregated around me in a semicircle, and the older boy’s head swiveled as he looked at his compatriots. Then he leaned towards me, and spat on my face, giving the rest a clear sign to begin their assault.
Someone kicked my side with a pointed boot, making me bellow in pain. My face was pummeled with snowballs that held small rocks and jagged pieces of black ice, cutting my face and blurring my vision. I felt a kick to my chest that made a loud crack. I tried to shield myself with my arms, but they were quickly held down as some of them stood over my wrists, their shoes breaking the skin as I tried to wriggle free.
At that moment, I felt like I was back in high school. Back in a fight I didn’t want to be in. Didn’t deserve to be in. But now I had no one to protect me, and the viciousness of my attackers made a point blank statement: I was going to die.
I could feel warm blood starting to seep into my clothes, and my breath trembling as I was pummeled from all sides, hurt and pain raining down on me. My attackers laughed and hollered as the larger boy instructed the others on new ways to hurt me. My mind was already fleeting, trying to escape the bodily horrors that were so undeniably real.
My survival instinct shouted for one last push, and so I braced myself and gathered all that was left of my energy for one last chance. With all my strength, I twisted my right arm out from under one of their shoes and lunged to grab the one holding down my other arm. I couldn’t quite grab his ankle, but I got a hold of his trouser leg. I guess I caught the kid in surprise, because his leg pulled away from my grasp as he flailed his leg. I heard a soft thump, and a victorious roar echoed inside me as both my arms were freed. Someone was already at my legs, trying to keep them from kicking.
Blood ran down my mouth and into my neck as I sat up, trying to free my legs. I didn’t care about winning. I didn’t care what the fuck these idiots were doing. I just wanted to run away. But I wouldn’t plead for mercy. Something inside me wouldn’t let me. I had to finally stand up for myself.
I managed to blindly kick the one holding my legs, and their hands let go. The others began to recoil, no doubt surprised that I was getting up, having freed myself from their grasp. This was my chance. I’d run to my car and drive to the hospital. I knew what the kids looked like, so I could give a statement to the cops. They’d surely find them sooner than later. Sure, I’d be bruised and battered, but I’d be alive. It would all work itself out.
The idea escaped me as the larger boy kicked my teeth in.
I was knocked back, and I instinctually held my face. I could feel hard, crunchy bits swirling in my mouth on a river of irony blood. Panicked, my tongue grazed my upper front teeth, which were shattered into a jagged, sawtoothed row, like a decrepit stone wall.
I could feel the fury of the boy as he sat down on my chest, squeezing his thighs tight against my ribcage, sending shooting pains as the cracks in my ribs rubbed against each other, contorting the bones into taut shapes, ready to burst in half.
His fists began to pummel my face in a rhythmic dance, each blow sending me closer to darkness, closer to death. At first, the pain swelled, but then it began to seep somewhere outside of myself, and I felt like I was floating. I could hear the others screaming at him to stop, but I no longer cared. My limbs fell limp, and I knew I was facing the end.
Against all odds, it stopped. The winter’s silence, enunciated by the blanket of snow, reappeared. I was sure I’d died then, left to figure out what was next, good or bad.
But as I opened my eyes, I saw that I was still at the cemetery, my brother’s gravestone wet with piss standing next to me.
But all the kids were gone. The sight, although familiar, felt unreal, but the pain began to set back in, planting me straight back in reality. Maybe someone heard the commotion and called the cops, and the kids simply ran off?
My vision was blurry, and it didn’t help much to clear my face of the icy snow seeped with coagulating blood. Everything ached as I pulled myself up. I was barely able to stand. I looked around to figure out what had happened; if it was safe for me to retreat.
Before I could decide what to do, a choked cry rang from above me. I walked a few steps back and craned my neck to look up, the blood in my mouth pooling to the back of my throat.
Floating ten feet above me in a semicircle were all the teenagers, those sick fucks, their limbs pulled into tight sticks. Their eyes were wet and their faces purple, and I could see some invisible force choking them, denying them of air.
And then the real carnage began.
The force began to stretch their legs and arms, slowly, deliberately, savoring the unnatural feat. I could hear sinew and joints cracking in protest, until one thunderous screech burrowed into the cold air as their limbs were torn off their torsos. Like dissected bugs, they floated in the air, the limbs hanging just inches away from their respective places, blood dripping from their small torsos.
I could feel a force similar to wind blow through the hallowed grounds, yet there was no coldness to it, no familiarity. The gust moved the limbs, splicing them through the air to float above the graves next to my brother’s. The arms and legs reanimated, the muscles contorting as the hands became stiffly cupped and the legs pointed towards the ground. I heard gurgling above me, the human clouds raining blood, as the limbs began to dig into the graves.
Each. Their. Own.
The disembodied limbs worked fiercely, cracking the icy ground and moving the earth with no regard for their bodily integrity. Fingers cracked as they dug, and bones began to jot out from between flesh. I was frozen in place, the horror of it planting my feet to the ground, and all I could do was watch.
Soon the graves were open again, like doorways to the world of the dead. The wind surged through me once again, and the torsos were flung to their respective graves, followed by the limbs. The upturned ground began to move, slithering and packing itself atop the dead teenagers. The bloody snow around me melted, swirling upstream like tiny rivers into the earth below. It didn’t take long for the cleanup to be finished, leaving nothing but broken bottles and assorted trash around the graves.
The weight of the energy lifted, and the sky opened to a faint, thick snowfall.
Once I could move again, the tracks were already buried beneath the snow. Besides the broken glass and trash, nothing was left behind.
Although my wounds were bad, I still managed to drive myself to the hospital. I told the nurses I got mugged, which wasn’t entirely untrue. They instructed me to file a police report, which I did once I got out a week later. I’d debated what to tell them, but in the end, I decided to tell the truth.
Long story short, they didn’t give a shit. I mean, not a Single. Fucking. Shit. Sure, they knew that some teenagers had been acting like idiots, messing about at the cemetery, but them being buried in old graves, chopped up by some invisible force? The cop I spoke to didn’t take to the idea. Anyway, he said they’d send someone to check it out and would contact me later if anything came up, which I’m sure was just a way to get me to leave him alone.
I got the call back a few days later, and apparently there was zero evidence to point at my story to be true. I insisted they exhume the graves, but he said there’s a whole bunch of bureaucracy and paperwork to do that, which would take them at least a couple months - besides the painfully obvious fact that they thought my story was complete horseshit. In short, they told me to stop bothering them unless I had something real.
But why the fuck hadn’t the kids’ parents called the cops? They’d been missing for over a week by then. To that… I honestly don’t have an answer. Maybe they thought they’d run away. Maybe they just didn’t give a shit - I mean, it wouldn’t surprise me if the fuckups had even bigger fuckups for parents. That’s how it usually goes. Just a sad truth. And it’s not the kids fault, not really anyway.
There’s been no word about the kids after that. Nothing on the news. No missing person reports.
And I think that’s the way it will stay.
I went to visit my brother again. The cemetery was spotless, and his gravestone was untouched. Although I wished to talk to him, tell him everything, scream at him, I just couldn’t. My heart dared not open for him anymore. Something inside me revolted at the sight of his name carved in stone, and in that moment I knew it was him. He’d killed them, slaughtered them, burying them next to him so they could never escape his sight.
But they didn’t deserve to die. I didn’t either, I guess. And that’s when my brother intervened, making the choice of who’s to live and who’s to die, the only way he knew how.
In the end, I said “Thank you,” and vowed to never visit my brother again.