“Humanity at its best can solve any problem, disease, disaster, but at its worst can end the world.” Unknown

This is not a story of one person, a protagonist or antagonist because everyone can be a protagonist and an antagonist. No, this is about stories of people like me, you , a stranger, teacher, doctor, grandma. A story of humanity and its cruelty, but also its light. A story about the demons and monsters inside and outside of people. Ones you might not think about because you don't see them till it's to late. Ones of different class, race, religion, and gender. Ones humanity ignored because it would paint a black mark on a white canvas.

Ansel Westbrook

Slam, bang, “loser, sissy, fag, teachers pet, whore, bitch, mama's boy.” Words thrown at me for no reason other than being weak. Bullies, I hate bullies, they always pick on the weak, the ones that are crumbling and they see their chance to be the final wedge that will crumble them completely. In my case I am the weak person that's crumbling. I was not always like that, there was a time when I was strong, happy, and full of hope but now i’m just a crumbling shell of my previous self. Ever since mom got sick that is, since we lost our house and had to move in with Ms. Maudie. But even Maudie couldn't help Mom. She helped us get doctors which was a waste considering Mom’s problem wasn't a physical disease, it is a mental one, one that broke her down to her core.

“What, not going to say anything… pathetic.” The bully smirks and walks away leaving me on the floor in the hallway, no one bothers stopping him, not at school when they all are vulnerable to him, Jacob. People say bullies pick on people because they too are suffering. I find that hard to believe when he has a loving family, money, a home, friends, athletic talent, not to mention handsome.

 Pathetic, does he think I don't know that, my mom's dying and I can't do anything. I am pathetic, maybe I deserve this, but I still have to move forward. I wipe my split lip and pick myself off the floor. I pick up the hazel notebook mom got me, her last gift she knew I liked to express myself through writing. A girl hands me my pencil bag not even looking at me and hurries away. To them I am a disease that if they are too close to they will catch. Pathetic just pathetic, I think to myself and then walk to my next class.