They both focused on class.
Well, Kirby tried to listen. Bradley's eyes were pointed towards Ms. Melina, but his thoughts were miles away, drifting back through the fog of his past.
I still wonder why he befriended me. After all the messed-up stuff I did. The Bradley that existed before meeting Kirby was a different species altogether—an insufferable, arrogant bastard who wore his family's wealth like a crown and looked down on anyone he deemed beneath him. The epitome of a spoiled rich brat.
Most people would blame the parents, and often, they'd be right. But in Bradley's case, it was a tragic irony. His parents were genuinely good, kind-hearted people. They were humble to a fault; you could have passed them on the street and never guessed the immense fortune they commanded. They had taught him about kindness, about humility, about respect.
He had just refused to listen.
It was an abnormality, a deep-seated rebellion for which there was no clear cause. This defiance festered until it manifested as bullying. He targeted those who seemed weaker, finding a twisted satisfaction in his own power.
But actions have consequences, a lesson he learned in the most brutal way possible.
When he was ten, a boy he had tormented relentlessly in middle school could no longer bear the weight of it. One Tuesday afternoon, the boy climbed over the railing on the second-floor landing and jumped.
Bradley would never forget the scene: the collective gasp of the students, the sickening sound of the impact, and the shocking, vibrant red of blood spreading across the clean, polished floor. He hadn't meant for this to happen. He never thought his words and actions could push someone to that edge. But a sin was a sin, whether he held the knife or just sharpened it.
Miraculously, the boy survived, though his legs were shattered. It was only thanks to Bradley's parents hiring the world's best physiotherapists that he eventually learned to walk again. He remembered his mother and father, proud and respected people, on their knees in the living room of the victim's modest home, begging them not to press charges. They were willing to bear any humiliation to protect his future.
Watching his mother's tears fall onto the cheap carpet, seeing the stoic slump of his father's shoulders as he bowed his head—that was the moment something broke inside him. A cold, sharp shard of regret and self-hatred lodged itself in his heart. It was his fault. All of it.
The victim's family, moved by his parents' raw, desperate plea, chose not to press charges. But he was expelled, and he spent a year confined to his home as punishment.
And what did his parents do? They didn't scream. They didn't hit him. They didn't punish him.
They hugged him. And they cried.
They blamed themselves.
Even though it was my fault.
They said they were failures as parents, that they hadn't been present enough, hadn't guided him enough. Maybe if they had spent more time with him, loved him more overtly, he wouldn't have become so lost. They faced public slander, saw their company's reputation tarnished and their sales plummet, yet they never once directed an ounce of blame towards him.
"A child's behavior reflects their parents'; we apologize for not being good parents and not raising him well." His father's voice, steady but filled with grief, echoed from that press conference on the television. That line was burned into his memory, a brand of shame he would carry forever.
Seeing them shoulder the blame for his monstrosity hurt him more deeply than any physical pain ever could. He started to believe he was unworthy of the air he breathed. He didn't deserve his parents. He didn't deserve their boundless, unconditional love. He didn't deserve anything he had.
But they gave it to him anyway.
"Why?" his younger self had sobbed, his small body wracked with guilt. "Why do you guys still love me after everything I have done?"
"Because parents are supposed to share their children's sins," his mother had whispered, her arms tight around him, his father's hand a steady weight on his back. "We love you through anything that comes in life. No matter what you do wrong, we'll always love you and do better to guide you on the right path while we're still alive on this earth, and we believe that you'll change."
That unconditional faith hurt more than any punishment. It was a love so heavy it felt like a sentence.
And then, as if the universe decided his punishment wasn't severe enough, it took them away from him. They died later that same year in a car accident, leaving him utterly alone and hollow.
You only realize that something was precious to you when you lose it, and it becomes a memory—a reminder that you'll never have it ever again.
He became convinced it was divine retribution. God had taken the two most precious things from him as payment for his sins. And it was the worst, most effective punishment imaginable.
I WANT TO DIE. I WANT TO DIE. I WANT TO DIE.
The mantra had played on a loop in his head for five long years. He longed for the release of death, but he was too much of a coward to bring it upon himself. So, he settled for slow self-torture: starving himself until he felt faint, letting the sharp sting of a blade on his skin be a temporary distraction, enduring the beatings from bullies without fighting back. But no physical pain could ever fill the cavernous, aching hole their absence had left in his heart.
When he discovered his supernatural abilities, he found a new, more final way to atone. He would hunt evil spirits, no matter how powerful. Let them cut him. Let them tear him apart. If he died in the process, so be it. It would be the release he craved, a death he didn't have to orchestrate himself. If he lived, he would keep fighting, day after day, until his body finally gave out.
He didn't realize when the tears had started, but he felt a warm, traitorous wetness on his cheeks. He quickly swiped the back of his hand across his eyes, hoping the motion looked like he was just brushing away sleep, before anyone could notice his moment of weakness.
He then looked at Kirby, who was now dutifully copying notes from the board.
And somehow, you befriended me despite all of that. I truly appreciate you, really.
He had once worked up the courage to ask Kirby why. Why would he, of all people, want to be friends with a known bully, a social pariah?
Kirby had just shrugged, a thoughtful look in his green eyes. "I am nothing but an imperfect soul," he'd said. "How could I judge others just because I sin differently?"
The profound, simple wisdom of that statement, coming from a guy whose greatest passion in life was his next meal, had stunned Bradley into silence.
A true big back, Bradley chuckled inwardly, the memory bringing a small, genuine smile to his lips.
...
Hours had passed, and the class was finally dismissed. The bell's shrill ring jolted Bradley awake; he had fallen asleep with his head propped on his hand midway through the lecture.
"Bro, you need to start sleeping early. You're not Batman, you know," Kirby said, already standing and stretching. He had two wrapped sandwiches from the cafeteria in his hand and tossed one onto Bradley's desk.
"And you gotta stop eating so much. Look at how big you are," Bradley retorted, unwrapping the sandwich gratefully.
"Never!" Kirby rebuked, as if the very suggestion of eating less was a cardinal sin. He was indeed big and tall for his age, a mountain of a teenager, but it was all solid muscle from his dedication to the gym.
Is it only me, or does he grow much bigger every single day?
[Nah, you're not tripping, he eats too much for a 15-year old kid.] Spirit Bradley confirmed, materializing briefly to lean against the window frame before fading out again.
"Anyway, this class is low-key useless," Bradley mumbled around a mouthful of sandwich. "Ethics. I don't need to learn ethics."
Kirby sat back down, demolishing his own food with impressive speed. "You *definitely* need ethics, man. You're becoming saltier than this ham."
"Me? Salty? No way," Bradley said, feigning offense.
Kirby finished chewing and nodded solemnly. "Yeah, you're the saltiest person I know."
A mischievous glint appeared in Bradley's eye. "I'm the saltiest when I bust the hot ejaculated nut down your throat."
Kirby choked violently on his sandwich, his face turning red as he coughed and sputtered.
"Cough, cough! Bro, why do you have to start with your homosexual rigamarole on a Monday morning?" he wheezed, pounding his chest.
"Sybau," Bradley said, leaning back in his chair and laughing freely, the sound echoing in the now-empty classroom.
[Gay.] Spirit Bradley's voice chimed in his head, laced with amusement.
Oh, shut up, Bradley thought back, but he was still smiling. For a moment, in the simple, crude camaraderie with his friend, the weight on his shoulders felt just a little bit lighter.