In grade six, I was roughhousing with a friend of mine, Marcus. He was
actually a size bigger, very athletic, and the son of a West German
officer. I was obviously not.
Usually, Marcus would put me in a headlock that I couldn't get out, or
pin me down with the extra 20 lbs. he has over me. Basically, I get my
ass kicked all the time. But kids being kids, we're always doing this
shit.
I remeber, though, this particular day, he was going for a headlock, but
I grab his arm shifted my weight back and pulled really hard till I
heard a snapping noise. Marcus gave out a death shrill and fell to the
ground.
And he stopped moving. I nudged him gently in the ribs and he didn't
flinch. I waited and waited. He laid on the ground, motionless.
Scared. It was my first experience with death. It felt odd. To know this
is the end of something. It like a movie when the hero rescued the
beauty, defeated the villian, and everybody cheered. The crew gets their
name on screen and the audience goes home happy.
Except here, no credits rolled and the plot ends abruptly. Just a little
boy on the rug with one should twisted into an odd angle. I panicked. It
was a bad thing I had done and the consequences dire.
He eventually woke up and limped home. I probably just dislocated his
shoulder and he passed out from the pain.
Since that time, I have backed away from every fight.
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