Johnny Be Good, Please.

Johnny Be Good, Please.

Trigger Warning: This short story contains gun violence and mature themes.

           John was a stupid name. A family name. A name I was stuck with. I wanted to change it in second grade when a fellow student began calling me Johnny B- after a character he saw in a movie once.

           “My name is John!” I told him right before I smacked his lower lip. I could hit pretty hard for a second grader. You had better watch out. This is when I learned that I had power over other people. One little smack taught me a lesson. A teacher saw the brief exchange of violence. She pulled me aside from the playground and took me straight into the classroom.

           “One hundred sentences!” She exclaimed. “Now, you will write one hundred times- I will not hurt my friends.” It was a short sentence, but, for me, it was a punishment that would take me all day to work on. “Good handwriting. Your handwriting must be perfect.” My teacher instructed. I remember specifically that I did not cry. Not one tear was shed for I deserved this punishment.

           When I walked home that evening in the rain in October, my right hand ached, but I felt proud of myself for completing the assignment my teacher had given me. One hundred short sentences. That wasn’t much of a punishment at all. One hundred short sentences. I could do that in my sleep. My hand bothered me. My right index finger was a little swollen from where the number two pencil had rested. As I walked home, all I could think about was how good it felt to hit that boy. I cannot even remember his name. It isn’t important. My name was the important one. Johnny B. Why would he call me that?

           When I arrived at home on Second Street, I did not tell my parents about the incident at school. I knew that if they found out about it that I would be grounded, and to be grounded meant no television for two weeks. That was a real punishment for there was nothing else in this world that I loved more than to watch television to escape from my life. A life that was mundane and boring. A life that needed excitement. Something thrilling. Is it bad that I am touching my nipples during our brief story telling? I think not. All I can think about is touching myself in various places. Then I think about touching you, my reader, in various places in the heart, brain, and in your oh so sexy soul.

           I told my mom that I wanted to watch a movie. A specific movie. A movie that inspired my fellow student to call me Johnny B. She did not allow me to watch the film as it was rated PG-13. She was incompetent, prudish even.

           “Johnny, be good.” They say in the movie. A movie I never got to watch. Why did Johnny B need to be good? I smacked a kid that day, and it felt great. It felt great to know that no one was going to call me names anymore, and if they did- SMACK!

           The next day at school we had a shooting. A crazy man in a mask entered our building and opened fire. The things he said… Oh, the things he said! We thought he was going to rape us at gunpoint- then kill us after he exploded in our mouths. Two teachers were shot down while protecting students they loved with their whole hearts. A bullet went through one of the teachers, and struck the kid that called me Johnny B. I didn’t mean to laugh out loud when I saw this happen, but I let out a big, “Haha!” Then I felt bad for laughing when I saw blood trickle down the poor boy’s face. Immediately, I felt remorse, and I put pressure on his wound. My fellow student and I survived the shooting, and the next day, the principal gave me a medal for saving my fellow student’s life.

           “Johnny, be good.” The principal told me. That was all that she said. She didn’t say anymore- the retarded bitch. It would have been nice to have a principal who was competent, but no, she should be the one to go next if there were to be another shooting at our place of education.

           “I will.” I replied, “I will be good!” But I knew that I couldn’t. Something was growing in me. Deep inside. Way deep inside. Soon, it would take over me and cause me to do terrible things I didn’t really want to do. Soon, I would be like the shooter. Stuck in a predicament I couldn’t get out of. Caught in the crossfires of my own making. It would be my fault. It would all be my fault. The shooter took his own life, but I would be smarter. I had the power to be smarter than him for he was a fool. A fool with no plan. Shoot all of the innocents- it seemed was his goal. Shoot all of the innocents- was not a plan at all. I understood fully that I was already a killer. I killed every time I walked home from school. Plants, ants, and other insects- that crawled under my feet step after step. I didn’t kill on purpose, but I did it just the same. It wasn’t my fault that I had to walk home from school, but even if my parents picked me up, we would still kill things that got in our way on our short drive home. Flies splattered on our windshield, and mosquitoes got caught in our windshield wipers.

           Fifteen years later, and I still haven’t seen that movie. I remember that day. The day I found the power. I had realized it was in me. It was in me. But could I be that shooter, and escape the school with my life? Or should Johnny be good? Be good, Johnny. Be good.