The Hard Bounce

Twenty-Three Years Ago

The Boy was eight years old when he learned how to hate.

It’s still difficult, even today, for him to remember the events in their right order. He knows where they should go, but hard as he tries, they drift through his mind like glitterflakes in a snow globe.

The screaming and the blood followed the first explosion. That much he’s sure of. So much blood.

The second explosion. Running at him. Throwing himself at a grown man like a rabid animal unaware that it doesn’t stand a chance. He was big for his age. He still didn’t stand a chance.

Bang. He was gone. Just like that. Tumbling in and out of consciousness with no idea where he was. What time it was. Who or where he is.

Bang. He was back. A priest. He can’t understand him. The inside of an ambulance, feeling it hurtle through the Boston traffic, the doctor unable to control his tears as he tries to stem the tide of blood that won’t stop pouring out of him. The Boy didn’t know there was that much blood inside of him. He knew he would run out soon. He was terrified.

Bang. On a gurney. Lots of people yelling. He bites somebody’s hand. A sharp pinprick in his arm. Where is she?

Bang. Another priest. He’s saying the same unintelligible words as the first.

Months in a hospital. Pain like an eight-year-old should never know exists in this world. Parades of doctors-first for his ruined body, the second for his damaged mind.

He has an anger management problem, they say.

Anger management. It’s a nice term for people who can afford it.

Psychologists in two-hundred-dollar sweaters and condescending smiles, telling him:

You need to let it go.

Think about the rest of your life.

Think about how lucky you are.

The world is a beautiful place.

The world is not a beautiful place. Not to The Boy, who’s going to need two more operations before he can piss without a tube and spigot.

They ask him why he’s such an angry person, what he’s so angry at.

Think about how lucky you are.