The Sociopath in Me

In fourth grade, for no reason, I put a thumbtack on a kid named Tyler's chair. I didn't even dislike him, I just wanted to see what would happen. I think I had gotten the idea from watching cartoons. He sat down and leapt up, not in a comical "Owie Dance" like I had seen in the cartoon, but screaming and crying in pain. This was at the time in adolscence when a boy crying for any reason was grounds for immediate scorn, ridicule and schoolyard beat-downs. I had damned him forever, and just because I was bored. The teacher had to help the sobbing student from class, and there was blood on the back of his pants.

Afterwards, the teacher came back, shaken and stony-faced. She demanded that whoever had done this "Vile thing" confess immediately. Then, when I didn't step forward and the innocent students basked in their innocence and hoped to deflect the horror of false accusation, she assured us that whoever did it should die of shame at what they had done to poor Tyler. He would be getting a tetanus shot and might even need to get stitches.