TinkerBell

TinkerBell. The word echoes in my head. Or perhaps I should say name? It doesn't really matter. I fucking hate the combination of letters resulting in Tinker–fucking–bell. It's the moniker I've been known as since day one in high school. Yes, I'm white, lanky and not as tall as your average jock but I have other qualities. Yeah sure, my family can't afford to buy better than second hand clothing and I can't remember last time I got a haircut. But I read one book per week, I'm almost fluent in french (despite my family being fully American) and I built my own miniature bridge at the age of eleven.

But these qualities don't matter in your teens. In high school people only follow the laws of the jungle. Or, if you'd have any brains, Darwinian law. Speaking of which, I probably am of a similar build to Darwin. He, like myself, did not spend every second of his time outside of the classroom at the gym. These mouth breathers I have to spend every day with probably only have a biceps muscle where there should be a brain. But what does it matter, here in the jungle, where only looks matter. We can't see how dense a brain is or the quantity of knowledge it contains. Muscles show, however, and the jocks female equivalents only have eyes for just those things too. It's actually quite insane to see how some of the girls I used to go to middle school with, who were smart and nerdy, nowadays compete with each other over who can wear the sluttiest outfit.

On our very first week at Delaney High we, of course, had physical education. Not that there's a whole lot of education going on. A fat "teacher" makes the two largest, most empty headed jocks choose their teammates one by one before throwing in a ball and blowing his whistle. I was actually a bit surprised that even the boy, later known as Fat Mike, got picked before myself. TinkerBell got picked last, and only because the teacher forced me into a team that didn't want me and I didn't want to join.

I remember how I got my moniker. First day of high school and I had just been shown where my locker was. I opened it and on the inside of the locker was a sticker of TinkerBell from Disney's Peter Pan. And that was enough. One of the knuckleheads saw it and from that moment I was branded "TinkerBell of Delaney High".

It's stupid, really. Perhaps, if I had stood up to him immediately, I wouldn't be in this situation. On the other hand I probably would've ended with a busted lip and smashed nose instead. I received both of those things anyways later on that first year. Uncalled for, just for simply existing in the same place. Some idiot who wanted to look cool in front of his boyfriends and the females he wanted to assert his testosterone levels in front of. For almost three years I've been the punching bag of this school's wool brained male population.

You might be thinking, what about my parents? Shouldn't the teachers be help out to prevent this sort of behavior? Well, my father never mentally evolved past his teens either. He loves sports, hunting, big breasts and a good barbecue. Never said he loved his son, though. He thinks problems are solved with "a good punch in the mouth" while my mom always defended him with a sigh followed by "boys will be boys."

Most of my teachers are of similar thought, apart from the violence, that is. Many of them are Christian, following the teachings of our Lord. "Turn the other cheek." Well, I did turn the other cheek, then back to the first, then the second again. I don't have anymore cheeks to turn. My eye sockets have been all colors of the rainbow. My nose a cascade of red. So how am I supposed to follow His teachings? I have one professor which I like, however. Professor Hart. She mainly teaches biology and math but sometimes she's a substitute teacher in psychology and history. While most kids would leave as soon as the bell rang, I was able to stay back and talk to her about not just her subjects but other stuff as well. She's very intelligent, and kind.

I once told her about what the other kids call me and she just answered "TinkerBell? But that's a beautiful name." and then talked about how we perceive ourselves and our given monikers, she also described how we are affected depending on the way the nickname is delivered. I remember how she finished the conversation by asking me: "What if I had called you TinkerBell? Would you hate me too?" I thought about what she said and then told her no. There was no ill intent in her voice when she said it. It kinda became our secret, when no one else was listening she'd call me TinkerBell and, as much as I hate to admit it, I even started to like it. For a while at least.

This all happened during my sophomore year. I didn't have professor Hart in my junior year. Instead we'd run into each other in the corridor from time to time and those moments became the highlight of my days. But as the days turned into a year I had to focus more on my studies, and surviving. I became even more withdrawn than I already was. I'd attend school just because I had to. I'd do my assignments and then head home as soon as I could. I'd lie as often as possible during Phys Ed or I'd simply skip it all together. The bullying continued. I was the schools official punching bag. Not even Fat Mike got in as much trouble as I did.

The last time I met Professor Hart I'd just come out of the boys restroom and had my nose broken and and two ribs cracked. I pulled up my hood in attempt to hide my face but she still stopped me. "TinkerBell? What's going on?" She asked me but I didn't respond. It was all I could do to not burst into tears in front of her. She put her soft palms on my cheeks and gently lifted my face so I'd look her in the eyes. "This has got to stop!" She said. "Where are the kids who did this to you?" I didn't respond at first. I only thought about the name TinkerBell. "It's Jake." I said. She hadn't called me Jake in private for a long time but in that moment I just couldn't bear to hear anyone else call me TinkerBell. "That's alright. But I can't help you if you don't let me in, Jake." she replied. "It's too late already." I said. I didn't have any strength left. "No, it's not!" but when I saw tears surfacing in her eyes, I simply could not bear to see her hurting. So I ran, I left school. I drove home and locked myself in my room. I sat in silence for once. Normally I'd listen to 80's and 90's rock music. Preferably Megadeath if 80's and Foo Fighters if 90's. You'd think I was into Nirvana but they're quite overrated if you ask me. Music would help me block out the noise inside my head. I would study to it and connect emotionally but above all it would help me cope with all the voices of bullies that echoed in my head. But as I sat there, in silence, in my unlit room I thought about Professor Hart. I thought about the tools that had broken my nose. How could I let her hurt like that? I should just disappear so she won't have to carry my dead weight on her consciousness. In that moment I thought about my fathers gun collection. Perhaps I should just off myself. Rid this world of myself, it would be for the better, for everyone. The first time I thought about it, it sounded good in my head. Perhaps people would notice. They'd regret. I would be remembered. But what would Hart think? She'd probably feel relieved. The thoughts continued to simmer inside my head.

Last Friday night I stole into my fathers garage where he had his rifles locked up. I knew where he hid the keys so it was easy to break in and steal his revolver. Only an idiot would use a shotgun. Surviving with a blown off face was not something I'd risk. My dad would use this gun to hunt small prey like rabbits and foxes, "for fun". I headed out into the nearby forest and sat down on a boulder by the brook that snaked its way through the darkness. I loaded a single bullet into the chamber. As I looked at the mouth of the barrel, however, I hesitated. Suddenly, it became real to me that I would not just be gone– but all my knowledge too, all my years of studying would perish with me. It was the one thing about myself that I was actually proud of. So I couldn't put the barrel to my temple. I didn't think of myself as a coward, only as too smart to go out like that. Besides, why let them win so easily? No, if I was heading down that path, I'd take them with me.

So now, it's Monday and I'm sitting in my car in the school parking lot. I've loaded my fathers revolver, but also his shotgun, and his hunting rifle. A couple of minutes have passed since the last kids headed inside and so they should now be in class. I want to be able to go to every classroom to clean them out one by one. Every kid who messed with me, who beat me, who broke me down. Every fucking one of these deadbeat jocks will pay for what they've put me through for these last couple of years. I don't care if the cops come for me. I'll take out as many of these idiots as I can before I off myself. I'll make them understand. My manifesto lies on my bed. I step out of my car. I don't bother to close the door, I'm not coming back. I walk by the school officer and nod to him, smilingly. But my eyes aren't smiling. He doesn't see what I'm carrying under my baggy jeans. I enter the school and turn a corner in the hallway before I pull out the shotgun which I stuck down the right leg. It is already loaded with two shells. I bring out the rifle too and sling it across my back to use after I run out of shells. The first door to my right is a classroom I know has my classmates in it. I know because I'm supposed to be in this class right now. It's History class, which makes this moment kind of ironic. We never learn from history. Kids are bullied every day and they eventually get their revenge. I take a deep breath and open the door, I raise the shotgun. At first there is ongoing chatter as I step inside but then the voices die out as they see me. Finally, they realize the error of their ways. It's payback time. But then as I look around before the shooting starts I see that something is different. It's Professor Hart holding the class. Why is she here? She looks at me, terror and confusion in her eyes.

"TinkerBell?"