THE ROCK

He crouched in the corner, hiding behind the potted plant. His tiny hands covered his face, leaving black smudges from the rock he had just set down. He was shaking. Whimpering. Waiting.

Waiting for a hand to reach for him. For someone to explain the storm inside him— the rage that had swelled without warning, taken over his small body, and demanded an end to pain he couldn’t name.

Now, there was quiet. At least outside. Silence, at last.

He didn’t understand what had happened. Didn’t comprehend the damage. How could he? He was only a child.

His tormentor lay a few feet away. Still. Silent. The rock beside him.

Neither boy could grasp the weight of the day. Neither understood what it meant to cross that invisible line.

The adults came running. They cried out, grief flooding their faces.

They lifted the limp boy from the ground.

Turned his face toward the sky.

And the face that stared back—was his own.