In the spring of 1994, just days before my cancer-removal surgery, I was approached in middle school by a classmate that I knew vaguely. He was somewhat nice to me, but mostly slung insults at me at every chance he got. I normally ignored him. Until one day when I was sick from my tumors and I wasn’t up for his shit. He slung his usual slew of insults at me, and I said these words exactly:
“Shut up, you stupid fuck!”
I began to walk away.
Suddenly, I was hit in the back of the head, hard, and I turned around to see the 15 year old behind me (I was 13 at the time), with his fist doubled up to hit me again. I turned to run, and he grabbed my hair, and pulled me to the ground. Kicking me mercilessly for several seconds, as another of his friends joined in. As I rolled over to get up, his friend was holding me down, encouraging Mr. Violent to do something. All I heard was “do it! I gott’er! DO IT!”. Violent’s friend’s girlfriend had appeared out of nowhere and was also holding me down. Then I saw Violent’s hand above me, as if he was going to strike me, I turned away, still struggling, then I felt a burning, throbbing, piercing pain in my side. Looking down, I saw the guy had stabbed me in the side, as his friend and his friend’s girlfriend were still holding me down. “You deserve to die, white ho! Who the hell you think you callin’ STUPID???” he was screaming at me.

My useless uncle walked up to the mess, and pulled me up, bitching at me for getting out of school late. He pulled me to the car, ignoring the gaping, bleeding hole in my side. Once home, I tried to reach my parents at their work, but I got the same message: “They’re working. They can’t come to the phone.” Oh. Right. Fine. I called 911. I had what appeared to be a smudge of blood on my side. I had been stabbed with a stick or a pen; something pointed and cylinder-shaped. It was a hole, a tiny hole, in my side. Five stitches and a bitching session from my parents when they found out that I was in the hospital and thusly costing them precious money, later, I found out the next day that I was being expelled from the school.

Apparently, I had made a racial slur towards this guy, and that gave him the right to stab me with the closest possible object while two others held me down. In this case, it was a stick, so he hadn’t violated the school’s rules by bringing a weapon to school. He told the principal that I called him a racial slur, and I tripped and fell on the stick. Bullshit. I saw his hand on it. I saw him holding his hand above me before it happened. I fell on nothing but the pavement. Plus, the stick had been stabbed in the opposite side that I had fallen on. Explain that. I with drew from that school. The girlfriend was suspended. Her boyfriend had run away from home. Mr. Violent returned to class the next day to scout out some other victim to harass mercilessly and then stab and threaten to kill them when they fought back, verbally. Probably another fair skinned, blue eyed girl, two years younger than him and suffering from cancer.

This man single-handedly jumpstarted my downward spiral. He caused my insane, schizo mother to put me in those insane holy-roller schools, where I was emotionally tortured and verbally abused for several months. I became fearful of my life. I became suicidal. I wanted to end my life because my existence had been so damned bad for so long that I could feel nothing other than misery. But it wasn’t to end there.

After therapy, drugs, hospitals, and intense love from my husband, I was able to pull out of the mess that was my life for so long. I was able to laugh again. I was softened again. I was able to smile. I was able to enjoy the sunshine. I could smell the beautiful aromas from the flowers again. I could see the rainbows after the storms again. Life was something I wanted to live and experience once more.

Then this afternoon I saw where this man had tried to friend me on Facebook.

His request opened up a whole new world for me. I had some closure, and some new fears.

He moved clear across the country. He was no longer within walking distance of me. He had gone to college. Gotten a Bachelor’s in something. He looks perfectly normal for a lying, psychotic, attempted murderer of white girls. Then I saw the part of his profile that made shivers run down my spine. He has a “wife”. I assume she is his wife, since there are numerous photos of them together kissing, holding hands, and lounging in bed. He also has a daughter. I fear for these women. Does his wife know who she is with? Does she know his past? Probably not, if they have a daughter together. What made me shudder more was wondering if she knew and it didn’t bother her. Many women marry liars, willingly. Many women marry abusers, willingly. But is there a woman out there who marries an attempted murderer? That can’t be normal. What if she says the magic word? What if she says “stupid”? Or the little girl? “Stupid” is a common word for children, and it sets that man off completely.

I hope he’s gotten help, for his new family’s sake. But something tells me that he never got help. It amazes me that he is clean-cut, looks nice, friendly, but I can see something no one else can see. I can see the hatred. I can see it burning in his eyes. He has a lot of hatred in him. It’s sad that I am the only one who can see this.

I didn’t add him as a friend on Facebook, naturally. I’d have to be insane to do that. My phone number and address are available on there, and the last thing I need is him showing up at my door. He’s one of the many people I have forgiven, but not forgotten.