Six boys sat in a classroom at Elkton Hills Prep School, chatting and laughing. One wore a solid gold chain on his wrist—clearly the leader of the group—while the others had silver chains.

A new student walked into the room, unaware of the group, but he immediately turned around and left when the room quieted when the six boys shot daggers at him. They continued to converse as if the boy had never appeared.

The door slammed open. “Phil, Phil, you gotta hear this,” a boy in the doorway cried. He, too, owned a silver chain. “That little scumbag Castle called you conceited!”

“Conceited?” the one with the golden chain repeated. “Me?” He paused, digesting the idea. Slowly, his forehead scrunched up and his lip curled downward. “That pea-brained skeleton dares to call me conceited?”

“I warned him he had better take it ba-back but he…” The first boy stuttered and trailed off, noticing Phil’s reaction.

“Go on,” Phil said. “What did he say?”

“He refused,” the boy finished. “He refused to take back his insult.”

“Phil, bro, we should go teach him a lesson,” one of the others said.

Nodding, Phil stood. “Let’s go.” He led them out of the classroom and to James Castle’s dorm room, the only place the boy hung around. Containing his anger, he knocked thrice on the door. “James, man? You in there?”

The door opened slowly to a scrawny kid wearing a turtleneck sweater. He glanced at the seven boys and smirked, but didn’t say a word. Phil pushed his way inside the room, ordering his lackeys to lock the door behind them. Then, he dragged James over to the wall and thrusted him down. James tripped and fell onto his knees.  “I heard that you called me ‘conceited,’” Phil spat.

James didn’t reply but maintained his smirk, the only confirmation that Phil needed. “You do know,” Phil said, walking around and inspecting the various items in the room, “what conceited means, don’t you?” Again, James stayed quiet. Phil glared at James, his expression darkening. “Take it back.”

“Take what back?” James innocently replied. “The truth?”

Roaring, Phil picked up an unopened, plastic water bottle and smashed it on James’ shoulder. “Take back the insult, you piece of shit!”

James bit his lip, forcing down his pain. He was used to this treatment. “I only state the truth,” he said. Standing up, he walked towards the door, but Phil’s friends prevented him from leaving.

“Hold him, boys,” Phil ordered. “He’s going to have to repent for insulting me.” Two boys each took ahold of one of James’ arms and forced him back against the wall and on his knees. Phil slapped him and then cuffed his ears. “You… will… take… back… what… you… said!” With every word, Phil punched the boy’s stomach.

The boy stood firm despite the pain evident on his face, and opened his mouth. “I… refuse.” Phil punched him in the stomach again before picking up the now disfigured bottle on the floor. Opening it, he held it above the boy’s face and dumped the contents out. After a few seconds, the bottle was empty and James gasped for breath. “This… won’t work,” he said. “I told you, I… only tell the truth.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

“You little…” Phil growled. He picked up a picture frame on James’ desk and dropped it, shattering the glass. Retrieving the photo, he looked at it before showing it to James. “This your mommy?” he asked, pointing to the woman in the picture and grinning. He tore apart the photo when James said nothing and littered the pieces onto him.

“Damn you,” James whispered. “You’re just a conceited, spoiled brat.”

“You… you…” Unable to find words in his anger, Phil instead picked up the diary on the boy’s desk. He opened it and read aloud, “‘Today, the stupid group appeared again. They are just bullies but they can’t even realize that. Annoying idiots. Phil isn’t as Stabile as he-’ you little ass. What is this?” Phil ripped out the page, crumpled it, and threw the ball, accurately hitting James’ face.

“As I said, the tru-” James cut off with a grunt of pain. Phil kicked his chest.

“My word is the truth, not yours, you peabrain. Take a hint.” Phil ripped out the pages of the diary one by one and repeated what he did with the first. Halfway through, he stopped. “Wait, don’t you have some eggs in here?” Looking around again, Phil spotted the small fridge in the corner of the room. Opening the door, he withdrew a carton of eggs. “Lucky me.”

Taking one out, he cracked the egg against James’ head and broke it, letting the raw yoke dribble onto James’ clothes. “It shouldn’t matter whether or not you-”

“You’re an idiot,” James said. Suddenly, he stood up with some unknown strength, forced open the window behind him, and before the other boys could stop him, jumped.

Shocked, Phil stared at the open window, and hearing the thud of the body hitting the concrete, he dropped the carton of eggs. The image of James’ teary-eyed angry face remained, engraved in his mind.

“Phil,” a voice beside him called, sounding distant. “Phil, Phil!” Each shout grew louder and Phil’s mind returned to reality. “Phil, we have to get out of here.”

“Y-yea,” he stuttered. “L-let’s go.” He stumbled out of the room, with the other boys following. “Why did he…”

Halfway down the hall, one of the boys said, “Man, you’re such a monster. How could you drive him to suicide over a mere insult?”

“Yea,” the others agreed, turning on Phil.

“You guys helped!” he cried in denial. “You guys were there too! You guys-”

“We didn’t do anything. What are you talking about?”

Helplessly, he watched as his friends left him one by one. Before the last one left, he said, “As your friend, I hope you turn into a better person. Accept that this was your fault.”

Phil stood still in disbelief. Soon after, a teacher came by. “Phil Stabile! Is it true?”

“I-is what true?” he said.

“You killed James Castle.”

“I-it’s not-”

“You shouldn’t lie; all your friends already confessed. They said they wanted you to be reformed.”

“They were there with me! They were part of it too! And I didn’t kill him. He committed suicide.”

“It’s your word against theirs,” the teacher said.

Phil laughed. “Idiots. Backstabbing idiots. What ‘friends?’ I have none,” he said bitterly.

Years later, Phil, now a teacher, noticed some bruises on the neck and wrists of one of his scrawny students. Reminded of James, Phil pulled the student aside in private and said, “If you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here.”

The student broke down in tears. No one before noticed his hardship, and here his favorite teacher offered help.

Phil smiled in relief. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—let the past repeat.