Though Wesley had difficulty playing football in middle school, he improved tremendously by October of his freshman year. He put on mass and lifted weights to strengthen his upper body. Things were starting to look up for him. He had a place where he could fit in, a team to keep him motivated, and the support of his classmates. Though his mother was unable to attend the games due to her never-ending work schedule, he would regularly tell her about them and how much he enjoyed being on the team.
“Maybe if I work hard enough, I can get a scholarship,” Wesley would say. Because there was no chance she’d have any money to pay for his education, let alone be willing or able to cosign on loans.
The last game Wesley played earned him his first highlight in the school newspaper. He caught the winning touchdown, and for the first time, he felt like he might have a chance to go somewhere with his life. Girls started paying attention to him, even though he was just average in looks. His Facebook blew up with friend requests. Teachers he didn’t have suddenly knew his name and would regularly say hello to him.
The following Wednesday, Wesley was invited to meet with the varsity coach after practice. Wesley was stoked, thinking of all the possibilities ahead of him should he continue to improve. After showering and changing into fresh clothes, he waited patiently outside Coach Colebrook’s office while the rest of his teammates went home.
It was 5:30 PM.
Wesley waited and waited, fiddling his fingers, wondering why it was taking so long for the coach to invite him in. He didn’t know how much longer he could wait, considering it would be dark soon, and he had to walk home.
Finally, at six o’clock, Coach Colebrook opened his office door and invited Wesley in. At this point, the locker room was empty. No other adults were there, not even a custodian.
Coach Colebrook was just as intimidating up close as he was from far away. At 6’3”, he weighed at least two hundred and thirty pounds, the majority of it in his chest. No player could out-bench him. He had a round, pudgy face, was completely shaven—including his head—and had cauliflower ears from boxing in the Navy. He spoke loudly, even indoors, indicating he may have lost some of his hearing but would never admit to it.
Wesley stood awkwardly in the doorway, unsure whether to stand or sit.
Colebrook relaxed in his revolving chair and gestured to the green cushioned chair across from his desk. He immediately stood once Wesley sat. “I’ve been watching your progress this year. I’m very impressed. You started just average, but you’re improving every week. Do you enjoy your position?”
“My position?”
“As a receiver?”
“Oh, yes, very much so.”
“Any aspirations to change positions?”
“Oh, no, sir. I’m fine where I’m at.”
“Hmmm.” Colebrook scratched his chin and sat on the corner of his desk. “Tell me more about yourself, Wesley. I never see your parents at any of the games.”
“It’s just my mom, and she works a lot.”
“Oh, so she’s not around much?”
“No. I’m usually on my own.”
“And how about friends?”
“I’m friends with everyone on the team.”
“What about girls? Do you have a girlfriend?”
“No.” Wesley nervously rubbed the back of his neck.
“Why are you blushing, Wesley? There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I’m, uh…” Wesley was visibly sweating now. “I’ve never had a girlfriend.”
“What about a boyfriend?”
Wesley cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter. “No, sir. I’m not gay if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Well, that’s good, son. Because this is a small town, and most folks around here are God-fearing people. I would hate for it to get out that we have a future star player who’s a homosexual. That just wouldn’t settle right with people. And it would certainly harm the reputation of this school’s football program.”
Stunned, Wesley nearly choked on his following words. “I’m not gay.”
“Are you sure? If you’ve never been with a girl, how can you know?”
Wesley wasn’t book smart, but he knew when someone was trying to mess with him. What purpose did this interrogation serve other than to make Wesley second guess himself?
Wesley smiled politely and said, “If most folks around here are God-fearing people, then me being a virgin would not be seen as any fault to them.”
“Touché,” Colebrook said, lifting an invisible glass.
“Anyway.” Wesley stood up, ready to leave.
“Yes?” Colebrook stood as well. He had a good six inches on Wesley and made no effort to give him space.
Wesley swallowed hard. “If there isn’t anything else you wanted to talk about, I should be getting home. It’ll be dark soon.”
“Oh, I’m sure it already is. Why don’t I give you a ride home?”
“I only live around the corner. It’s not a big deal if I walk.”
Colebrook placed his hand on Wesley’s shoulder, giving it a good squeeze. “I insist.”
****
Later that night, Wesley laid sideways in the bathtub, waiting for it to fill with enough water for him to drown.
It wasn’t the physical pain that tormented him. He barely noticed the blood seeping between his legs, turning the water a pinkish red. It was his soul. Should he have one, it was taken from him that night, after he’d been humiliated and destroyed.
When the water covered his nose, causing him to gag, he sat up and grabbed a bar of soap. Violently, he washed himself, pushing hard against the fingerprint red marks on his arms. But no matter how hard Wesley scrubbed, he couldn’t get the scent of Colebrook off his body. He kept smelling the man’s awful aftershave and hearing his heavy breathing in his ear.
Wesley stayed in that bathtub all night, trying to rid himself of the smell, the pain, the shame, and the guilt.
Why?
Why didn’t I fight back?
Wesley blamed himself. He never should have accepted a ride home with Coach Colebrook. He’d listened to the coach lament about how horrible high school was for him and how fighting in the Navy helped him to overcome many of his problems. Yet the coach never declared precisely what those problems were.
Wesley should have gotten out of the car immediately rather than allow the coach to put his arm around his shoulder, squeeze it repeatedly, and then let him fondle his ears and neck.
Why?
Why didn’t I fight back?
By morning, Wesley decided the only way to survive the trauma was to shut down. To keep everything hidden away. If he opened his mouth, if he told anyone, would they believe him? Would his teammates take his side or the coach’s?
Wesley didn’t go to school for the rest of the week. The junior varsity coach called several times, asking if he would be well enough to play in Friday’s game, but Wesley never responded. Instead, he spent most of his time in his room, trying to make himself feel as little as possible. The less space he took up, the less he would feel. He barely ate, barely moved. When his mother came to check up on him, he pretended to be ill. After a while, she knew he was faking it and threatened to tell the school. If a counselor or any of the coaches knew, they’d wonder why, which would lead to questioning. Wesley couldn’t handle any of that. He wanted to be left alone.
When Wesley returned to school the following week, he was a completely different person. He didn’t speak to anyone, avoided eye contact, and kept a low profile in the hallway. At first, a few of his teammates were genuinely concerned about him, thinking someone had died or Wesley had some incurable disease. Rumors quickly spread, but not one person speculated that the head varsity coach had raped him.
Wesley left his jersey outside the locker room with a note to all the coaches that he was quitting football and for no one to contact him about it. Immediately, the guys who were “concerned” then cornered Wesley in the hallway, demanding his reason for quitting. No one leaves Morville football unless they’re seriously injured or sick.
That’s when the bullying began. Everyone knows this part of the story. Several people witnessed the harassment, but no one spoke up about it until after the Morville Massacre. Even though the school had a “strict” no-bullying policy, they were lenient if the perpetrators were athletes. It was more important that the school won state titles than care about the loners and outcasts. Those are the unfortunate truths of many high schools in America.
The knife incident happened just before Winter Break. Wesley had been punched, pushed, and his head dunked into a toilet, but when three of his teammates cornered him in the bathroom, telling him to drop his pants so they could take a picture of his penis, Wesley finally snapped. He opened a switchblade and slashed at the air, screaming, “If you ever touch me again, any of you, I will kill you!”
Wesley was suspended for bringing a weapon to school. The other boys claimed they hadn’t touched him and were merely trying to get an answer for his betrayal to the football team. Their “harassment” earned them lunch detention.
The years went by. Eventually, no one bothered Wesley, and he was forgotten about. Though whenever someone new inquired about him, the responses were harsh. “Don’t mess with him. He’s crazy and might blow up the school one day.” He met regularly with the school psychologist and was prescribed Lithium, which numbed him to a point where he wouldn’t notice the rain on his back. Nothing brought him joy or happiness anymore, but that was okay. He would rather spend the rest of his life desensitized than feel any ounce of his past.
He played video games to pass the time. At first, it was just a hobby, but Wesley showed skill in the first-person shooter world. Because his medicine fatigued him, he ditched Lithium to spend more time online. He became highly competitive to the point that he would express rage toward his teammates whenever they lost a match. The things he screamed matched many of the hurtful things thrown by his former teammates.
And then one day, something changed in Wesley. After being banned from another match, he got ready for his evening shift at the grocery store. As he walked through the parking lot, a truckload of loud high school kids zoomed by, nearly hitting him. Wesley waved a fist and yelled at them to slow down but halted when he realized it was the varsity football team, celebrating their state victory.
Suddenly, Wesley was taken back seven years prior when the varsity team won, and the town went wild for them. While Colebrook celebrated his victory, Wesley chowed down on Lithium and curled up in his room all alone. Would Wesley take that route again? Not this time. Drugs no longer pumped through his veins anymore—only rage.
After that, it just became planning. Target practice. Buying a gun. Planning it out. Figuring out when the team would be together, close enough for one flawless attack. Since football season was over, the team would only come together for the end of the year award ceremony. At first, Wesley considered wiping out the entire auditorium with a homemade bomb. Because it wasn’t just Coach Colebrook who failed Wesley—it was his teachers, his classmates, his teammates, the whole town of Morville. But Wesley knew destroying the football team alone would damage the town beyond repair. So he made his decision. And he carried it out to near perfection except for two targets. Colebrook escaped with a shoulder shot, and Daniel Nowak wasn’t even there.