LouisChristian Short Stories

A man walks into a bar and orders five drinks. The bartender notices he has a scar on his face. It started on his left eyebrow and crossed diagonally to his right cheek. “What happened,” ask the bartender.

“I got into a fight,” replied the man. “My wife cheated on me with my sister.” The bartender shook his head. “That’s harsh,” he sympathetically said. “I’m glad my sister isn’t here. Here’s a free drink.”

The man took it and gulped it quickly. He continued his story. “I didn’t know what to do,” he said, “so I went into a brothel. I paid for a full night with a gorgeous woman, and we had the best time. Unfortunately, the next day the police came barging in my room. The bitch planted crack in my house and told the police, all for a quick buck.”

“But how’d you get that scar,” asked the bartender.

“I went to hunt that bitch down, but when I went back to the brothel, a big guy grabbed me and cut my face with a big ass knife. He told me to get the fuck away from his sister. I barely made it out alive.”

As he finished his story, the man noticed that the bartender had a rather large birthmark on his left hand. 

“weird birthmark,” the man told the bartender, “it looks exactly like that bitch’s from yesterday. 

I was a small preteen back then. The world was so small to me; it was me, my friends, and school. I didn’t care about anything else. In fact, I was so shallow and conceited that even with my friends, I always assumed I was right. I didn’t care what anyone said, and I never listened when someone gave me their opinion. I was just correct, in every incorrect way of the word. 

One day I met a boy my age. I only remember him because of his long, platinum-blonde hair, which was rare back then. Because I thought I was better then everyone else, I asked him his name. “Kyle,” he said, and went on his merry way. “What a rude bitch,” I thought. I wanted him to speak to me. So I ran after him.

“How long have you been at this school,” I asked. Kyle shrugged. “I don’t know,” he replied, “I’ve been here since you were.” I laughed. “That’s not true,” I retorted. “I’m popular, I know everyone.” 

“If you say so,” Kyle said, and hurriedly walked away. 

I went to my friends. Well, I thought they were my friends, but looking back, they seemed more like a disjointed theatre play. I was just an actor wearing a mask, trying to hide my imperfections. I’m sure the rest were the same. 

“I hate that kid Kyle,” I yelled. “He’s a fucking faggot.” Someone patted me on the back. “Who’s Kyle,” someone else asked. “That kid,” I replied. “Regardless, I hate him. He’s so rude.” That’s when someone gave me an idea. “I know how we’re going to get revenge,” one of them told them. I listened, going along with what they told me. 

The next day, I saw Kyle in the hallway next to his locker, gathering his books. My group stood a few feet from him. I could see their anticipation building up. The truth was, back then, I didn’t think of my consequences. I didn’t know what would happen, and I hadn’t cared. All I cared about was teaching this boy a “lesson” as I gripped the scissors in my hand tightly.

I put on a black mask and made sure no one knew what I looked like. Then, I dashed right next to him and cut his hair. It was one swift motion; no one could have seen it coming. I tugged on his hair tight and cut it. He wasn’t even aware of what was happening. I ran and ran with his hair in his hand. I heard the snaps of digital cameras as I turned the corner. 

During lunch, my peers huddled around our usual table. The all pulled out their cameras and showed me the pictures. Kyle looked horrible. There was an enormous bald spot on the top of his head. Every angle imaginable was shot, and I was happily laughing along with my peers.

However, after a couple of pictures, I realized the consequences of my actions. A small, red stream trickled down from where I cut his hair. After that, the pictures became more gruesome. More blood came out, staining his pale, ghostlike skin. I became more afraid as each picture depicted Kyle’s crimson blood in various places.

The most horrible picture of them all was a full shot of his face. There were a set of crimson hand prints on his cheeks. After all that blood, what unsettled me was his face. He wasn’t just crying, he was shocked. Even as tears rained from his eyes, his face showed how depressed he was. Kyle looked at me through the camera. His eyes met mine, and right then and there, I knew what he was asking me. “Why,” his face read. Why?

I want to say that I turned myself in, but I didn’t. At that moment, I laughed with all my peers. I pretended that he was just another stupid boy, but I knew what I did. I knew what I was. And I hated myself more then anything.

A few days later, I was found out. Some of my peers had told on me. I was brought into the principal’s office. I met Kyle’s mother. She was crying. I couldn’t look her in the eyes. I sat their in silence as I was expelled from school. Kyle’s mother stared at me as I exited the office. The only person who hated me more then her was myself. 

As I went to gather my stuff, I was greeted with stares from other people. I walked down the hall. All eyes were on me as I went to gather my stuff in my locker. My peers were a few feet away from me. They tried to look as if they hated me. I doubt they even cared about me. 

You’re all probably wondering what happened to Kyle. As I walked towards the exit, I passed his locker. Around it were wreaths and flowers. “R.I.P” was written boldly on his locker door. “I’m sorry,” I mouthed. I didn’t cry. I tried not to. Even after the whole ordeal I was still stubbornly proud. It didn’t matter anyway.

I exited the front doors of my school. It closed with a loud thud. 

Someone grabbed my shoulder. I turned around. It was the police. He handcuffed me and threw me in the back of his car. I looked back at the school, but all I could see was Kyle’s shocked face.