Matthew Steenson

He was tall for his age and he walked funny - like a Sasquatch sighting from some tourist's home movie all slumped over and self conscious as he disappeared into the forest. On his face was a seemingly immovable rictus grin that invited ridicule and sympathy in equal measure.

Would it surprise you to know that ridicule beat sympathy by a landslide?

He was different. We all saw it with our own judgmental fourteen year old eyes, and we all acted accordingly. Me too, you understand.

No heroes here. Just cowards.

I remember once in class I played a trick on him. In a desperate attempt to prove something to the pricks I aspired to, I pulled up the ladder, cut him loose.

He trusted me, you see.

So when I told him about the ink smudge on his face he simply smiled and rubbed it off. No cynicism, no suspicion - he just did it.

He trusted me, you see.

His face covered in ink and no clue was currency for me. Cheap laughs from cheap people. Kudos from the laughing hyenas.

He trusted me, you see.

His name was Matthew Steenson. He was my only real friend, and I miss him.

He trusted me, you see. And I let him down.