-.-
I picked up the bird and above the din I said
"That's the last song you'll ever sing".
Held him down, broke his neck,
Taught him a lesson he wouldn't forget.

But in my dreams began to creep
that old familiar tweet tweet tweet
bird song; florence + the machine
-.-

Sometimes Jacob Hamilton thinks about it. He’s only twenty years old and he’s haunted by a mistake he made three years ago. Sometimes when he’s sitting in his mind-numbing philosophy class at OSU, his mind drifts back to senior year and that damn Sadie Hawkins. As his teacher waxes on about Plato and someone’s apology, he remembers the screams and the blood. He thinks it’s funny that he can remember exactly how the blood smelt in the crisp cool December air, but he can’t remember what happened after the ambulance came. Or that he can remember how mind-numbing the crack of bone sounded in the empty parking lot, but he can’t remember how exactly he wound up in his bed the next morning.

It haunts him, it really does. In the middle of finals week, when his stress levels are explosive, he wakes up with Anderson’s screams ringing in his ears. Sometimes all he’ll remember are flashes of those eyes. More often than not, he doesn’t remember what he actually dreamed about, but some reminder will stick, and he’ll spend weeks thinking and remembering.

There’s not a mark in his permanent record that insinuates he almost beat two highschoolers to death. His dad’s lawyer cleared up a spot on his record the day of the incident, and his family simply pretended that it was all one big misunderstanding. However, to Jacob, it doesn’t matter what they think, because all he knows is that he can remember exactly how Kyle Westwood’s scream was louder than the approaching sirens, and how Blaine Anderson’s big teary golden eyes finally slipped shut after a kick to the skull.

He remembers walking into school the morning after, how his heart raced and his palms were clammy, how he jumped at nearly every sound, expecting the two beaten highschoolers to appear before him. His cohorts in action, Tom and Colin, found him in front of his locker and made a big show in the hallway, nudging and congratulating each other. They had basked in the rumble of fear every single person in the school suddenly seemed to have for them.
It didn’t seem to matter for any of their classmates that that they hadn’t tried to stop the bullying during school hours. They had let the abuse continue and had only protested when the two were hurt badly enough to be hospitalized. The entire day, Jacob Hamilton was watched and treated like a criminal, and Anderson and Westwood absences were left unspoken.

It’s not nearly as blas� when he really realizes that if they had gone just a little bit further, if they had slammed his head to the ground just a little bit harder, if Colin had aimed a better kick, they could have killed them. Anderson was in the hospital for over a month, and never returned to Westerville High. Westwood left within two weeks of coming back to the school.

He almost throws up the first time he realizes that the three of them—the ones that actually beat the shit out of Kyle Westwood and Blaine Anderson—practically almost got away with murder. On bad days, it makes him sick to his stomach. He knows that Blaine Anderson and his date have been scarred for life.

It’s even worse when he remembers that the whole school seemed to forget the incident ever happened by the end of the year. Tom was crowned Prom King, Colin was the Salutatorian, and the two boys that were beat into unconsciousness? Never mentioned. Anderson, the kid with too big hair and too small a body, became a vague memory, and Westwood’s celebrated return and departure from Westerville High turned him into a laughing stock.

Jacob would admit freely that he had joined in, every single time the others found the pair alone in the locker room or walking through the empty hallways. He made cracks about their sexuality, gripped Anderson by those big loose curls and slammed him into lockers, hissing curses. Jacob Hamilton never cared about Blaine Anderson, but even he was human. The sharp crack of bone, and the smell of blood made him feel sick, and on that crisp December night, he found that his heart had dropped into the bottom of his shoes.

He knew he was a bully, but he didn’t think he was monster.

It’s when he’s literally kicking the life out of the boys that he realizes how deep shit he’s in. During the dance, they watched from afar, not saying a single word and only bumping the pair when the chaperones were nowhere in sight. Jacob Hamilton had clutched his on again off again girlfriend’s hand through each and every slow dance, and had felt a strange sort of adrenalin rush, waiting in anticipation as he, Tom and Collin watched the two boys sway. They had followed them out of the school at a little passed ten and waited until they were seated on benches to creep up behind them.

It had been a mutual decision to find the boys and roughen them up. It was only when the older boy Kyle started freaking out that Tom and Collin truly pounced. They screamed insults, threatened their lives, and called them out for being homosexual. It’s only halfway through, when Jacob is alone in beating Blaine Anderson that he freezes. Tom and Colin had focused on Kyle Westwood, taunting him more than anything because the boy had one hell of a mouth, and Jacob held Blaine Anderson’s life in his hands.

He’s landing a particularly swift kick to Anderson’s gut when he pauses. The poor boy, who seemed smaller and paler and younger than minutes earlier, gave one giant wheezing breath before choking coughing out a mouthful of blood, keening like an injured animal.

The sight of the blood, and the rich coppery scent had him pulling back. Anderson was shuddering in pain, curling in on himself and making sharp whistling noises with each and every intake of air. Jacob stopped short, foot still in the air as he found himself suddenly panicking.

What was he doing? This kid—this boy—was barely fourteen and so fucking small. And he was beating him into unconsciousness, until he was puking blood and crying. Anderson was the same size as his twelve year old brother, his wily, energetic, annoying twelve year old brother. All he could picture was little Jeffrey watching him, staring at him with watery red eyes and bruises covering every inch of his body.

They had hit him before—pushed him into lockers, thrown all kinds of shit at him—but they had never hurt him that badly. Within seconds, the other boys were on Anderson, kicking him and pushing him toward Westwood, and Jacob Hamilton could not move. His eyes were trapped between the two prone younger boys sprawled across the concrete, and he finally fell to his knees. The other boys mocked him for not having a spine, but all he could see was the blood that stuck to Anderson’s curls and the ripped, bloodied, dirtied dress shirt of Westwood. He closed his eyes, trying to shut himself off from the commotion but the noise and smell was too great.

He opened them again, staring into the night sky. A whimper of pain and fear brought his attention down, and he found that Blaine Anderson was watching him with large hurt eyes, apparently ignoring the lessening kicks to his legs, and staring unblinkingly at him.

There was no accusation in his eyes, somehow; those big teary golden eyes were flat. Even after a particular vicious kick to his chest (delivered by none other than soccer star Colin), when Blaine was struggling to move, curling over in one last valiant move to wrap his arms around himself, his bright eyes never left Jacob’s face.
They were watching him with peculiar interest as Colin continued to kick him and curse at him. Anderson’s mouth was trembling and shaping and reshaping into words. He wasn’t quite so capable of speaking at the moment, too pained, but Jacob could see it and felt his blood run cold. Help us.

Help us.

Help

Us.

And he did nothing, staring open-mouthed and sick as Tom and Colin beat the freshmen until Blaine Anderson followed Kyle Westwood into unconsciousness, his breathing harsh and warm blood pooling rapidly under his body.
He did absolutely nothing, and he regrets it every single day.