Chapter 3: The Boy With Bruises

We met in high school.

Back then, I wore thick glasses and kept my hair in a messy ponytail. I was the kid who volunteered for everything, who knew every teacher’s coffee order. Carter transferred in halfway through junior year—tall, skinny, with a chip on his shoulder big enough to fill the whole classroom. You couldn’t miss him.

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He always sat in the back row, headphones in, hood up even when it wasn’t cold. Teachers gave up trying to get him to participate after a week. He never met anyone’s eyes. I remember thinking, Is he even here?

There were always kids who claimed to know everything. They said his dad was the richest man in town, that he’d just been acknowledged by his father, and had two older half-brothers.

Rumors spread fast in a small town. Some said he’d been kicked out of his last school for fighting; others whispered about family drama, money, scandal. All I really knew was that he never smiled, and nobody dared get too close. Did anyone really know him?

His life couldn’t have been easy. I’d catch glimpses of bruises—yellowing on his jaw, or angry red marks peeking from under his sleeves. Each one made my stomach clench.

Sometimes, I’d spot a fading black eye, or the edge of a welt on his arm. He never flinched, never explained. It made me ache in a way I couldn’t put into words. Why didn’t anyone help?

Nobody wanted to deal with him. I remember thinking, Someone should do something.

He was radioactive. Even the bullies kept their distance. It was easier for everyone to pretend he wasn’t there. Sometimes I wondered if he noticed.

Except me—I was class president and math team captain, so I had to talk to him now and then. Not because I was brave. Just because it was my job.

It was my job to check on the new kid, make sure he had his textbooks, knew his locker combo, understood the schedule. I did it because everyone expected me to, not because I was brave. I remember thinking, Just do it. Get it over with.

I was timid, always speaking softly to him. He never answered. Always sat alone in the farthest corner.

Every time I approached, I felt like I was intruding. He never told me to leave, but he never thanked me, either. Sometimes, I’d catch him watching me with those sharp, unreadable eyes. What was he thinking?

That’s how it went. Quiet, awkward, until graduation. It felt like nothing, but I think it meant something to him.

We moved through those last months like parallel lines—close but never touching. I figured, after graduation, I’d never see him again. That was the plan.

Later, our homeroom teacher asked me to deliver Carter’s college acceptance letter to him. I remember thinking, Why me?

It was a sticky, humid June afternoon. The teacher handed me the envelope, looking relieved to pass the job along. “You’re the only one he talks to,” she said, like it was true. I didn’t correct her.

When I went, he was "playing" with his two brothers on their huge, manicured lawn. There was a metal collar locked around his neck. My stomach turned at the sight.

The Whitaker house was all glass and stone, perched on a hill like it owned the whole view. The lawn was so green it hurt my eyes. I stood at the edge, clutching the envelope, watching the scene play out like some twisted nightmare. I thought, This can’t be real.

One brother was kicking and punching him, making him fetch a frisbee like a dog. The other was filming with a camcorder, laughing wild and loud. I felt sick.

Their laughter was sharp, echoing across the yard. Carter didn’t make a sound—not even when he stumbled and fell. The collar gleamed in the sun, a cruel, mocking version of a family game. I wanted to look away.

He stood there in silence. I was frozen, barely breathing, but his brothers turned to me, smiling. Then they looked at the camera and said, syrupy sweet,

“Hey, Carter, your classmate’s here to see you. Come on, bark for her. Woof woof, come on, do it.”

Their voices were sticky-sweet, fake as the plastic flowers by the front door. I wanted to run, but my feet wouldn’t move. I thought, Just hand over the letter and go.

I remember my voice shaking as I said, “Carter… Carter, I’m here to give you your acceptance letter.” I hoped it sounded normal.

My words sounded thin and useless in the thick air. I felt the sting of tears, but I forced them back. Not here. Not now.

His brothers didn’t make things hard for me. I handed over the letter, and they let me go. I could barely breathe until I was back on the sidewalk.

One of them even winked at me, like we were all in on the same joke. I wanted to scream, but I just walked away.

I didn’t want to meddle, didn’t want to yell at his brothers for being cruel. I just wanted to pretend I hadn’t seen anything and run away. I told myself, It’s not my business.

I told myself it wasn’t my business, that I had no right to interfere. But the image burned behind my eyelids. I couldn’t shake it.

I knew there was nothing I could say to make his brothers stop. Not really. Not in their world.

Their world was made of money and power. I was just a girl with a letter and good intentions. What could I possibly do?

But back then, idealism was everything. School assemblies and textbooks taught us to be brave, to speak up against injustice. I wanted to believe I could help.

I remembered those assemblies about standing up for what’s right, the posters in the hallway with slogans about courage. My hands shook, but I couldn’t just walk away. Not this time.

So after I turned to leave, I clenched my fists, turned back, and stammered, “You… you can’t do this, he… he’s your brother.” My voice was so small I barely heard it.

My voice cracked, but I forced the words out anyway. It was the bravest thing I’d ever done. I was terrified.

His brothers paused, then burst out laughing. The sound bounced off the stone walls, cruel and sharp.

Their laughter was sharp and cruel, echoing everywhere. I felt about two inches tall. I wished I could disappear.

Probably laughing at my naivety. Who was I to think I could change anything?

Maybe they were right. Maybe I was just a kid who didn’t understand how the world really worked. But I wanted to believe I could make a difference.

That was the moment I suddenly felt really sad for Carter. My heart ached for him.

It hit me all at once—a wave of helplessness. I wanted to reach out, to do something, but I didn’t know how. I felt useless.

At school, classmates treated him like a plague; at home, his family used him as a toy. There was nowhere safe for him.

He was trapped, no matter where he went. I wondered how he kept going. How did he survive?

But he was just a boy my age. He didn’t choose his family or parents—he could only accept it. That shouldn’t be why he was bullied and humiliated. It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair. None of it was. I wanted to scream at the universe for letting it happen. Why didn’t anyone help?

He’d never hurt anyone. Never.

He never fought back, never lashed out. He just endured. I admired him for that, even if I didn’t understand it. How did he do it?

When you’re young, your heart is soft and you haven’t seen much of the world. It’s hard to watch people suffer, especially someone you know. I hated that I couldn’t help.

I thought about all those times I’d looked away from someone else’s pain. That day, I promised myself I’d try to do better. I wouldn’t look away again.

I choked up. Carter, with a bruised face, just stood there in silence, watching me be sad—as if he wasn’t the one being humiliated. My throat burned.

He looked at me with those haunted eyes, and for a second, I saw the boy he might have been, before all of this. I wished I could save him.