The Story of Jonathan Burghess

“Did you hear about what happened to Jonathan?” asked Rosie.

“No?” said Orlando, his eyebrows furrowing, eyes opening. He looked really tired, but upon hearing the name he asked “What happened?”

Rosie looked around herself, leaned in close, and whispered, “He was kidnapped. Mutilated. Murdered. It was all over the news! How could you have missed it? I mean . . . it’s Jonathan Burghess. The most popular kid in the whole school, right? Do you not know him?”

“Of course I know him,” said Orlando, shaking his head. “Though whether he’s the most popular is beyond my knowledge. There are a lot of Jonathans in this school.”

“Regardless, you heard what I said,” replied Rosie. “You heard me tell you what happened to him, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” said Orlando. He squinted his eyes and made a face of disgust as he imagined how a person could do such a thing to a student. “Did that actually happen to him?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said Rosie. “Terrible, I know.” As a gust of the cold winter’s wind flew past, Rosie’s shoulders went as high as her jawline, and her hands went to her biceps, rubbing up and down.

“Who could do such a thing?” asked Orlando. “He was only . . . what, seventeen years old?

“Yeah,” answered Rosie. “He’s gone too soon. I kind of miss him.”

“Same,” said Orlando. “I mean, even though he bullied me and all—”

“Now’s not the time, Orlando,” said Rosie. “Don’t make yourself the victim. A boy was brutally killed and his parents are probably traumatized, let alone his brothers and sisters if he had any and all the other members of his family.”

”You’re right,” said Orlando. “But I was just saying. . . . Never mind it.”

“We should get out of here,” said Rosie. “The bell’s going to ring soon.”

That was the conversation I overheard before the bell rang and Orlando and Rosie got up, grabbed their backpacks, and left to go to class. They held hands as they went, so my guess is that they were either boyfriend and girlfriend or just real good friends. I wouldn’t know, though. I haven’t been to school for months, so I’m sure a lot has happened.

The two of them gave me weird looks as they told the story. I don’t blame them, though. After all, I sat on a wooden bench across from them in all black, the hood of my sweatshirt over my head, holding a cup of coffee with both my hands before me, occasionally taking sips from it. They probably thought I was a creepy old man because I had a fat cigar by my hand. Again, I don’t blame them.

I assume they told a teacher I was there, because out came Miss Knoll. “Excuse me,” she said, walking toward me. When she got to me, she tapped my shoulder, and asked, “Are you a student?”

“No,” I answered harshly, and took a sip of my coffee. It was hot, dark, and pure; for it was black coffee, and it warmed my throat each time I swallowed.

“Well, then, you better get going,” she said. “You’re scaring the students, and me, for that matter. Dark things have happened around this area, and we don’t need anything darker.”

“Do you mean to call me suspicious?” I asked, and took another sip. I kept my eyes forward, watching the sun rise higher and higher and the morning revealed itself.

“Yes,” she answered. “Now if you don’t go, I will have to get one of the safety officers to make you.”

“Understood, Ma’am,” I said, and stood up. I grabbed my backpack and, refusing to turn and look her in the eyes, said, “I’ll go now.”

She watched me as I left the grounds, then shortly after went back inside. I walked down the street until, at the end, I reached the bus stop.

As I walked in, it started to drizzle. Then thunder rumbled and lightning struck, and so I sat down. From my backpack I took out an empty notebook and a pencil and started to write, so here we are now.

An old lady sat next to me. She moved closer to try to get a better look at me, but upon seeing my face, she gasped and her hand went to her mouth.

I look at her in the eyes with embarrassment. “Don’t tell anyone,” I say as a tear runs down my cheek. I usually would never want that. If I went somewhere, everyone would know; and if not everyone knew, I’d want them to know, because I’m popular, and I have a lot of friends. But anyways, she nods and scoots away, and for the next five minutes we sit in silence until the public transportation bus arrives.

She and I get up and the doors of the bus open, and I say, “You first.”

She goes without hesitation, and I follow. I sit in a seat by itself near the back, getting weird looks as I walk down the aisle with my pencil and notebook, writing in it as I go.

I don’t blame any of them. I look disgusting, anyway. It makes me want to kill myself. My face is deformed, and so is all other parts of my body. That’s why they are covered.

I try to wear a face mask everywhere I go, but this day I forgot. That’s why the old lady gasped. She saw my face and recognized me, and she came to a realization. What it was I can’t know for sure, but I can make a pretty good guess: she saw my picture in the newspaper.

I really want to go home. I don’t feel comfortable. I don’t like going outside, not since that day months ago. I only went out today because I wanted to see my old high school. I saw posters saying ‘Rest In Peace, Jonathan Burghess’ all around, and when I overheard the rumor, I knew that this was not good. I knew I had to go into hiding. Jesus, I thought everyone knew. I thought they knew I survived. . . .