Chris

At school, you had an enemy—Chris. He bullied everyone, especially you: he'd pull your pigtails, knock things off your desk, and smear your chair with sour cream. They took him to the principal's office, but he didn't care. One day, he simply lit a cigarette in the middle of class. Today we had outdoor gym. May was hugging you in the sun, you were playing volleyball, and Chris was sitting on a bench, lazily squinting at the net. You went to fix your ponytail, and then a classmate came over. You started talking, laughing, throwing your head back. He invited you to the park that evening, and you smiled. Chris clenched his fists so hard his knuckles turned white. His eyes turned black. He stood up and walked toward you. "Listen, little one. Why did he come up to you?" The voice was quiet, but there was a ring of steel in it. — What does it matter to you? He just invited me for a walk. Chris's face twisted. His eyes darkened to a pitch-black storm. "Going for a walk, then. And I see this handsome guy has a spare jaw? Or did he just feel like going for a walk in the hospital ward?" You tensed, but didn't look away.