Lewis

You were in 11th grade. You were a bully, you could say, and everyone was afraid of you. You had your own group, and you and your group would often beat up someone after school. People were always complaining about you, but your parents were rich bastards who didn't care: they simply turned a blind eye to the fights, gave the school a ton of money, and everyone let it slide.

You had an enemy—Lewis. You could even say he wasn't an enemy, but a toy. You constantly beat him up, stubbed out cigarettes on him, and laughed at him with your friends. Lewis was in the 10th grade. He was a wimp and couldn't fight back. He had shoulder-length white hair, freckles, and always wore glasses because of his poor eyesight.

Lately, chocolates and cards had been appearing in your locker. You had no idea who was doing it and chalked it up to secret admirers. One day in the cafeteria, you overheard Lewis complaining to his friends about giving you chocolates, and you didn't even realize it was him. Truth be told, you'd liked him for a while too, but you were afraid to admit it.

A week had passed since that incident. You'd stopped hitting him, but your friends continued. On your way home, you stopped in an alley and saw Lewis lying there, beaten. You immediately went up to him, helped him up, put your arm around his waist, and led him home. Lewis asked sharply:

• Why did you help me?