Another memory of Mr. Dickson's flashes before my eyes as I sit in History listening to the teacher ramble about some ancient civilization. Pain courses through my veins when the vision hits me in full force. Images unfold right in front of me, Mr. Dickson swallowing his pills that were laced with poison, his body seizing in his bed, a white foam flowing out of his mouth. His death. Brian Dickson, my asshole algebra teacher, was murdered. I begin to feel sick, I cover my mouth with my hand, and stand up, pushing my chair away from my desk. I can feel all eyes on me as I rush out of the classroom with my backpack and run towards the restrooms, ignoring the teacher's yells behind me.

I burst through the door of the boy's bathroom and into a stall. Slamming the door shut behind me. A hunger is building up inside of me, I sit on the abomination otherwise known as this toilet and basically tear open my backpack. Searching for the brains. I feel the plastic beneath my fingertips and lift the bag from my backpack. I need to know who murdered this fucktard.

I shove the gray brain matter into my face hole, already feeling the relief and the hunger settling. More memories pour into my mind, I grip the disgusting toilet seat trying to ease the pain but to no avail. His whole life is laid out before me. But I only wish to see his final few days. Of course, however, I never get what I wish for.

I witness his birth, growing up in a small suburban home in northern Maine, swimming in lakes with his sister, eating cranberry pies baked by his mother, being abused by his father. Come on brain skip this shit, I don't want to see it. His teenage years, his first kiss, his first car, his first love. Graduating from college, finding his passion for teaching and then gradually losing it, marrying his first love, having a baby, slowly becoming a full-on asswipe.

After minutes of agony from absorbing too many memories, I see his final days. His wife, Linda, poisoning his pills, realizing that she can't take his abuse anymore. The same abuse that he once received from his father was given to his wife. He became something he promised himself he would never become. He became his father.

The memories end in a flash bringing me back into reality when I hear the bathroom door open. I can't help it. I bend down on the floor dirtied with grime and begin to unleash hell's fury in the form of barf unto the poor, innocent toilet. Just because your half-dead doesn't mean you can't throw up. As I lie there, pouring my insides and pieces of Mr. Dickson's brain into the rusted bowl, I hear a small voice ask, "Um...Are you okay? Do you need some help?"

I want to say, no I'm not o-fucking-kay, I'm sitting on the floor of the boy's bathroom and barfing someone else's brain into a toilet, does that seem okay to you? But instead I grunt something incomprehensible in between spasms of throw up. It is that moment when I hear the stall door, guarding me from the embarrassment of many, slowly open.

I look up when I'm finished dying again and flush the toilet, erasing any remains of Mr. Dickson's brain. I wipe my mouth with my sleeve and slowly turn my head towards the jackass who decided it would be a fan-fucking-tastic idea to open the stall door. A small black-haired hobbit boy stands there awkwardly, not knowing what to do. His hazel eyes are traced with eyeliner and the tips of one side of his hair curl at the bottom, framing his pallid face. He looks at me and smiles slightly, I grunt once again, encouraging him to explain why the fuck he's standing here and who the fuck he is. But the response I get does nothing to enlighten me on one of those subjects.

The boy waves at me and opens to mouth to speak. "Hey, my name's Frank...it's nice to meet you." He says and laughs awkwardly. It is in that moment that I decide: I don't like this asstart.

Notes