He Was Good

Henry was good. I don’t think he had any malice in his bones. Whenever the guys shoved him to the ground, his eyes would well with tears, but he always gave a smile and replied, “It’s okay,” even if they didn’t apologize. I think that’s why people chose him. Henry was a good guy. He used to walk the court every day—even through the freezing snow. He had been here long before I arrived, yet he treated me like I belonged. Henry didn’t have a shred of hate in his bones. Sure, he used to break the rules. He made crude jokes in physics and occasionally smoked in the dorms, but he earned good grades. The jokes always sounded rehearsed. He only really seemed to enjoy our literature class. He purposefully wrote poor poems, but there was a time before class when he would slide the crumbled paper towards me, and I could see the erased words of a beautiful poem beneath the terrible jokes he actually submitted.

Henry was gentle—painfully so. The guys used to whisper and claim Henry was secretly a woman, because no man could have such a personality. Once as I walked with Henry along the asphalt, we overheard the mockery. I said nothing. I wish I had said something. Henry used to save the rabbits on the field from the guys, the soft white rabbits with their twitching noses. The guys used to throw rocks at them, but Henry loved animals like he loved no one. He would shield them with his body until they scattered. I wonder what will happen now that no one is around to cradle them.

I remember the first time I saw Henry cry. I had believed he was this well-composed guy, but the look in those brown eyes told me otherwise. We were at the bridge, on his birthday. His birthday was November Fourth and his father had forgotten—failing even to send a simple letter. Most parents sent a gift, but not Henry’s. He told me he was okay with it, that his father never really did anything for birthdays. I wanted to argue that it wasn’t okay, but I didn’t want to bother, so I stayed silent. It was snowing that day. Henry was already mourning the lack of care from his father, but then one of the guys had shoved him. The shove sent Henry over the rail. He landed in the freezing water, leaving his uniform soaked. I remember hurrying down the mud to reach him, to help him out. By the time I had reached him, he was standing completely still before I watched the tears stream from his eyes. My father raised me to believe guys don’t cry. I stood there and watched.

On the day it happened, the school assembled everyone in the lecture hall. We rarely spent time there, students weren’t allowed to enter without explicit permission. The headmaster had claimed Henry had “given a noble sacrifice” and that we “will remember him forever.” Nothing was noble about what Henry had done. No one apart from me will remember him forever, but grief looked good on the school. If they pretended to grieve their lost student, maybe Henry’s family would give a donation. I do not consider what Henry had done a sacrifice. I do not think he should have died. His death should be considered a murder, those guys drove him there. Henry would not have done this. Henry wouldn’t have willingly left me. They will not remember him, they don’t know a thing about him.

I remember at the assembly I saw his father cry. His mother was there, too. She couldn’t even look at the headmaster. She buried her head into his shoulder and wept, their grief infuriated me. They had no right to mourn their son. No one but me had a right to mourn Henry. Especially not his father. I remember that his father had gone up to the stage, and gave a pitiful speech through his tears.

“My son was a beautiful boy. He touched the hearts of many, and his intellect was outstanding. He was at the top of his class academically, and cared so much for his classmates. There were times where I was worried for his future, but now there will be no future. I believe my son has sacrificed himself for the greater good, as much as we will miss him. I hope my son can be a guiding light for you all. Thank you.”

It was all bullshit. His father couldn't care less for the well-being of his son. I believe his father had this vision of a son, someone who wasn’t Henry, and I think his speech was for that son. Henry did not care for grades. He wanted to write. He did not sacrifice himself. His classmates and his father killed him. Nothing good came from his “sacrifice”. I wish people would quit claiming they will miss him. His father would never miss him. His father will miss the idea of him. I think Henry would have forgiven him, that was my least favorite part of him. He was too forgiving, never holding a grudge against anyone who wronged him. I wish, oh, I wish Henry would have held a grudge. I wonder if he would hold his first grudge if he had survived. I wonder if he would hate the boys that drove him to this. I wonder if he would hate his father. I wonder if he would hate me for not saving him.

I think I should have tried harder to support Henry. He said I was the first boy he cried in front of. He said I was the only one to be by his side at this school, that he had been mocked since the day he had arrived. Was it my fault that Henry had done this? I put the blame on the boys, on his father… but I was the one who was not by his side. I think he would have listened if I had told him not to do it. The spot was only a short walk from the dormitory. If I was walking at our normal hours I could have found him and stopped him.

I was laying in my bed when I heard the sound, no one seemed fazed. “This is a hunting area,” I was told. Everyone told me it was fine. I believed them. I stayed in my dorm while Henry bled out in the snow, turning the beautiful white powder into a sickening red puddle. I was the one who found Henry. Far too late. Hours had already passed.I think I could have reached him in time. I could have prevented his sacrifice.

His sacrifice? It was not a sacrifice. It was a murder. Those guys murdered him. He would not have done anything if they had not done those things to him. Henry would be by my side if I had saved him. I should have defended him all the times that he was made fun of, but I always just stood and watched. I trusted his word when he said he was okay, I trusted everything he said. I never doubted his joy and I never doubted his words. I should have doubted him. I should have tried harder to be a friend. I should have prevented his ‘sacrifice’ and done better.

I was terrible. I have too much malice in my bones. I should have picked Henry up off the ground and defended him. I should not have let people choose him. I was a bad guy. I can’t walk the court anymore, no matter the weather. Every brick reminds me of Henry. I should have treated him like he belonged. No one makes jokes in physics anymore, and I stopped smoking. Just the texture of the cigarette reminds me of him. My grades have fallen, I have poor grades in every class. I don’t want to fit in anymore. I want Henry. Literature class seems so dead without him. I don’t read anyone’s poems before class, and no one seems to write terrible jokes anymore. I think I could have been better for Henry.