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My name is Matthew I am 23 years old. I did my time in the Sayville Public Schools, graduating with a Regents diploma in 1996. I am a veteran of a thousand psychic wars, and I fought every one of them in the halls and classrooms of the Sayville Public Schools.

I know that it is a cheesy reference. It is likely that many of those who will read this will have heard neither of Blue Oyster Cult nor of Michael Moorcock. It is probably pretentious of me to compare myself to the Warriors at the Edge of Time. No matter. I swore an oath by both my tears and my blood that I would never again concern myself with the opinions of human beings. 

I have forgotten much of the specific abuses heaped upon me by the children I went to school with. Some of my words may seem to others an exaggeration. That does not matter, for I am telling as much of the truth as I know.

I remember daily name-calling. I remember physical fights of all kinds: ambushes from behind, sucker punches, being held back while others pounded me. I remember being spit on. I remember a gang of laughing punks taking my viola and tossing it about. I still bear a scar on my forehead from when a bully named Reland slammed into me from behind and drove me into a trophy case.

I have sworn to attend Reland's funeral. Then again, I have sworn to attend a great many funerals. Someday, all of my tormenters will die. It makes no difference to me how they die, so long as their mediocre lives end. If they die screaming, so much the better.

My mother tells me that the abuse began on the first day I went to kindergarten. Somebody decided to hit me over the head with a textbook on the school bus. I find the irony amusing; that I could become a bookworm despite having books used as a weapon against me.

I never understood why others wanted to waste their time picking on me. I was more intelligent than the others. I was pudgy. After a while I had to wear glasses; it seemed that constant reading had made me nearsighted. I was incompetent in sports. For these reasons many of the students disliked me. The teachers disliked me because I refused to be docile and accept the premise that they knew more than I did simply because somebody else said so. I questioned all authority, and it seems to me that I did so instinctively. No doubt the teachers and administrators thought that I deserved every misery that befell me.

When I got into fights, my father's main concern was whether or not I threw the first punch. If I did not start the fight, he always stood behind me. My mother alternately told me to be myself and to try to fit in. However, she never explained to me how I could be myself and fit in at the same time.

In fourth grade I began to study the viola and play in school orchestras. My music teachers seemed to care for me; I apparently had talent and soon learned to play well -- though I sounded atrocious for about two years. However, while gaining some sympathy from the teachers, I also received more abuse at the hands of other students. Not only was I a geek who read all the time, had no friends, and couldn't even catch a ball; I played a musical instrument and did so competently. Obviously, I was a wierdo at the very least, and more likely a homosexual. Amusing, is it not? I had yet to reach puberty, yet everybody somehow knew that I derived pleasure from sex with men.

For a while I used music to cope. My music lessons gave me a respite that I could look forward to, and in middle school I faced less abuse in my orchestra periods than in other classes. Achieving first chair in the viola section and also holding first chair in the extracurricular chamber orchestra helped. I suppose my instructor still remembers me fondly. I remember having a crush on her, but cannot remember her name. I feel guilty about burying her name alongside the evils.

I paid for my respite in music classes with abuse elsewhere, unfortunately. Matters rapidly progressed to a point where, in eighth grade, I was ready to either commit suicide, commit a massacre, or commit a massacre and then commit suicide.

Every once in a while I hear some ignorant fool of a Christian ranting about the evils of rock music, especially Heavy Metal. They love to give out little propaganda comics that claim to prove that metal is evil because listening to metal drives people to commit suicide. I like to point out to these ignorant little Christians that Heavy Metal did what their precious God could not -- it saved me from suicide.

I was in eighth grade when my parents got cable TV. I was flipping through the channels when I happened upon MTV, and I saw the video of Metallica's "The Unforgiven". I noted the album the song came from, and as soon as I had the money, I bought a copy of Metallica's Black Album on tape. I didn't know about the Internet at the time, or have access to a computer. I had to learn about Heavy Metal from MTV and what I could overhear at school.

Eighth grade was also the year in which I entered the National Geographic Society's "National Geography Bee". Schools nominally sponsored this competition, as a school that produced a student capable of winning at the state level receieved a measure of respect, and the school that produced a national winner earned even greater esteem. The student himself received a $25,000 college scholarship. I had little trouble tearing through the competition at the school level. The state contest was slightly more difficult, as while the school claimed to be proud of me, it offered little in the way of help in preparing for the competition. However, I won the state championship as well. So far as I know, I was the only one from Sayville to ever win at the state level. With greater effort, I won my way through the semifinals, held in Washington, D.C. Each of the champions from the fifty states and the country's possessions and territories had to be narrowed down to ten finalists. I was among the ten. The finals took place a day later, and were broadcast on PBS. Alex Trebek, the host of Jeopardy!, hosted the finals.

I could have won. My parents knew so and said so. I knew so, and knew something that I have never told my parents: I did not want to win. Winning the school and state competitions only brought me misery: abuse from other students and heightened expectations from my teachers and parents. I knew that if I won the finals I would become known across the nation for a short while, and that there would be Hell to pay at the hands of the bastards I did time with. As athletes put it, I "choked". At least, my parents think I choked. Actually, I threw the game. Sitting there under lights and cameras, I decided that winning the game cost more than I was willing to pay. I hope my mother never reads this -- she would never forgive my shattering one of her illusions.

Before I started high school I made arrangements to borrow an instrument so that I could practice over the summer. I had managed to borrow sheet music for a couple of concertos, one by Vivaldi and another by Paganini, and used them to practice. I put them aside for some reason, and turned on my stereo. For some reason, the melody to "The Unforgiven" clicked in my head, and I found myself playing along, by ear, on the viola.

I never thought that it was possible to play Heavy Metal on any instrument other than guitars, keyboards, and drums; I was at once shocked and delighted. By the time high school started, I had changed. My hair had gotten quite long, I was wearing jeans and rock teeshirts to school, and I had gotten nasty. Really nasty. My father played some of his Alice Cooper tapes for me, and I took his song "No More Mr. Nice Guy" to heart.

It has been said that nice guys finish last. I finally figured out the truth behind the bromide: Nice guys die first. I had decided, as Elric did at the end of The Dreaming City, that if I was to be hated, I would give society cause to hate me. All my life I had been told that I had to earn my blessings, but could expect curses for no reason. I decided that I would earn everything I got, whether good or evil. No more would I suffer an unearned damnation.

I made it my policy to repay everything given me. When a person treated me kindly, I treated that person kindly in turn. If a person ignored me, I ignored that person in turn. And if treated cruelly, I repaid cruelty for cruelty. I knew that I could expect no mercy, and I was determined to show all the mercy my tormentors showed to me -- no mercy.

I doubt that the people I did time with in high school recognized me from middle. Instead of being shy, I was sarcastic and contemptuous. I answered questions with an edge on my voice, as if dealing with the teachers and their questions was beneath me. I spoke to the other students in the same way, wielding words as a duellist wields a rapier. Indeed, the only sword I dared to wield was a sword forged of words. I shocked the other musicians in my orchestra period when, during rehearsal, I would start belting out music by Megadeth or Iron Maiden while the instructor was attending to the violin section or the brass section.

Starting in my junior year I had become strong enough and nasty enough to either stare down my enemies or take them on in a one-on-one fistfight. I still did not win every fight, but I never lost. It could be said that most of my fights were draws. It did not matter. What mattered was the fact that those who used physical force against me suffered for their effrontery. The word got around that I not only spoke like a demon, but fought like one too.  

Old Sayville Football Team in the mid 1990s "The jocks backed off pretty quickly after I caught the quarterback off guard and threw him down a short flight of stairs."

Of course, the verbal abuse never completely stopped, but I was able to stop it in some cases by rearranging expensive dental work. When called to task by the principal, I warned him to stand aside as he and his fellows had done all along; that I would protect myself since I could not count on the system to protect me.
I remember being nominated for Homecoming King in my senior year. Upon hearing of this I stalked right out of class, threatened to impale the hall monitor that tried to stop me, stormed into the principal's office and ordered him to remove me from the Homecoming King ballot. I fully expected to be a male Carrie if crowned Homecoming King.

For some reason, I had attained popularity of a sort. Most of the students knew of me, the madman that played Iron Maiden songs on a viola, wore a trenchcoat, had really long hair, and drew blood with every word. My mother demanded that I buy a yearbook when I graduated. I doubt that I will understand why so many people signed it, and why so many left kind messages with their signatures. I doubt that I will ever understand why they all cheered for me and applauded when I took the stage and took my diploma.

I am still scarred. This is to be expected; I spent thirteen years in Hell and came out the other side. I attended a small college, studying computers, for two years and dropped out. I never explained to anybody why exactly I dropped out. I told my parents that college bored me, and that I wanted to start working and living my life.

I only told them part of the truth.
The whole truth was that I could not bear to be in that place. The hallways, the classrooms, the throngs of students in their little groups -- it all reminded me of high school. In each class I sat in a corner, so that nobody could sit behind me. I spoke to no one. No one approached me, save the professors.
With my old enemies out of sight my rage turned inward. I cried myself to sleep many nights. I was lonely, and grew lonelier each day, but did not dare to reach out to another. I expected to be hurt the moment I put aside the armor I wore each day.

After a time I obtained work as a programmer, and left my parents' home. I live alone now; I have a large apartment, an extensive collection of Heavy Metal albums (some of them imported), and a small library. For company I have an affectionate black cat whom I named Nuzzlepot (He likes to nuzzle me when he wants food, attention, or good combing.)

I tend to isolate myself as much as possible from society. I feel no connection to most people. I tend to silently laugh when I read of the various evils human beings like to inflict upon themselves and each other. I often whisper to myself, "You poor fucking humans," as I read the newspaper each morning. I no longer think of myself as human, and hold the gods and governments of humanity in utter contempt.

I have a distant, but affectionate relationship with my parents and brother. I have few friends, and communicate with all of them via Internet. I have found in myself a talent for computers, and there are a few on the Internet that have honored me with the title "Linux hacker". I suspect that the title is unearned; my meager knowledge came mainly from study and experimentation. I have not contributed anything new to either the Linux or BSD communities, but have answered questions where I could. I have also found that I have some talent as a writer, and have decided to write a novel.

However, I have all but renounced the viola. I can rarely bear to play the instrument anymore. The last time I felt the strings of my viola beneath my fingertips I sank to my knees in tears. It has been six months since I last tried to play.

I have some comforts in my life, and despite the memories I am slowly healing. I have the online connections I have made. I have my books, my music, and my writing to keep me warm. I am still young, and can entertain the possibility of healing myself to the point where I can stop despising human beings.

I have a friend, a young lady from Australia named Catherine, who also faced rejection and loneliness in school. While she did not have to fight to the death, as I did, to retain her identity, she understood the war I felt forced to fight. She understood that I fully expected to be destroyed in school, and that I resolved to die on my feet instead of my knees. She calls me brave for standing as I did.

For my part, I worship Catherine. I find her intelligent, witty, sweet-natured, genuinely funny, and in all respects a woman of quality. She tells me she loves me. I find myself wanting to believe her, despite half-believing that love was just another plot-device to be exploited by a skilled novelist. Stranger still, I find myself wanting to love her in return.

I do not know that to expect in the future. I hope that I have a future with Catherine, and that I can continue to heal. I hope that I will not have to fight again, or unleash the demonic rage within me. I hope that I can devote my passion to creation and not destruction. For the most part, though, I take each day at a time. Each day I stand, look the world in the eye, and challenge it to do its worst.

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