The Book of Weston

I enter the classroom, and he is there:

my adversary always waiting in my peripheral

as I sit near the back. But it doesn't matter;

good old Nick finds a way. He has helpers

who zip-tie my backpack to my desk,

and I struggle to untie it as they cackle,

faces red like demons. I move to a desk

close to the teacher, poker face,

not wanting to give them satisfaction.

It doesn't matter; they move behind.

The class is doing an experiment:

designing microchips we place inside

syringes we inject into slabs of meat.

While I work, I feel the pinch of a needle

in the back of my neck. I turn and grab

a syringe from Nick's hand, break it in two,

and shout, Stop it! The teacher approaches,

and I hand her the broken needle and rub my neck

worried about infection, to be infected by him.

Nick seems angry that his fun was spoiled.

Later, I walk alone across the dusk-dyed campus,

staying in sun, avoiding the shadows,

and just when I let down my guard:

a tap on the shoulder. Nick's grinning sidekick

holds a beeping receiver. They're tracking me

with the microchip. I snatch the receiver

and smash it against the bricks and struggle

to escape their clawing hands.

Nick is closest, so I grab him, righteous anger

boiling over, fueling a hatred I thought myself above

as I squeeze his neck and slam his laughing skull

against a brick wall. But they're still grabbing,

ripping my shirt. I yell, panic flooding. Help, help!

Call the police! A nearby group of boys

holding a Bible study at a nearby picnic table

continue praying in the lengthening shadows.

That evening, the automatic doors open

to an arctic A/C breeze as I limp

into the grocery store, on a mission,

machete hanging from my hand.

I see Nick working a checkout line

and, without hesitation, I lunge and swing

at his neck until he falls, tennis shoes squeaking,

slipping in his own blood. Screaming customers

flee, and I chop and chop until nerves are visible,

until bone is visible, until the head

separates and rolls away and blood pools

under it like a crimson shadow, and I see my face

in the puddle, a face full of rage

and also pleasure. But the pleasure melts

into heavy loss. And, touching my neck, I'm shocked

to find my own blood staining my fingertips.

Later I sit on a bus next to Nick,

talking casually, laughing together

at a beautiful horrible secret

only we will ever know.