bloody brave for telling them. My nan was a little off about it, but she’s old-fashioned like that. She soon got used to it.”
“How did you feel about it?”
“Honestly? It never really bothered me. I was proud of him for coming out, obviously, but I just never understood what the big deal was. And like I said, it just kind of fit. It wasn’t unexpected.”
“I see.”
Kayla stared into her hands, examining the crescent-shaped indents her nails had left behind. They still stung a little. “We were all so supportive. We loved him to bits. He brought a boy around, once, before they went on a date. My dad gave the guy a stern talking to, like he would if I was seeing someone, and said stuff like, ‘You take care of my son, now,’ just like it was normal. Which it was. My mum quizzed him all about it when he got home. She put the kettle on, and despite his bashful grin, she insisted he told her everything over a cuppa. What Zack’s parents did, did Zack offer to pay for the meal, did he smell nice. It didn’t work out with Zack—he didn’t smell that nice at all—but we just knew everything would be fine.
“Everyone loved him. He did well in his exams, and he helped his friends study by sharing his notes. He played rugby for the town, and he went to parties and gigs too. He loved music. Not as a performer, though—everyone in our family is rhythmically challenged. And he’d recently told my parents he wanted to go traveling after school, and he was so excited for that. He was just a normal seventeen-year-old. Liking the same sex was nothing but . . . a side note.
“But then he started getting these messages. On Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr. At first, they were nasty, but not threatening. ‘You make me sick, you fucking faggot.’ ” Dr. Myers flinched at the profanity, though she tried her best to disguise it. Kayla swallowed the bile rising in her throat and continued. “ ‘You disgust me. You’re sick.’ That kind of thing. Disgusting, disgusting abuse. Then . . . then they got worse. Much worse. They said they were going to . . . They threatened to anally rape him, because ‘that’s the way you like it,’ and then they said . . .” Kayla cleared her throat. “Then they said they were going to rape me in front of him, to show him how it should be done.”
A pause. Dr. Myers was initially lost for words, but she recovered quickly. “I’m so sorry to hear that, Kayla. Really, I am.” She blew out through her lips, causing them to vibrate. “Was there a police investigation? They can be difficult to deal with when you’re grieving.”
Kayla shook her head. “No. Not an extensive one anyway. Once they’d ruled it as suicide, what was the point? Online bullying is, sadly, very common. That’s what they told my bereaved parents, anyway. As if Gabe was just another statistic.”
“I understand that must have been difficult, Kay—”
“You don’t, though. Nobody does, and nobody ever will. I desperately need somebody to blame, somebody other than myself, but there’s no one . The social media accounts were anonymous, all under different names. Whoever it was—if it was only one person—used different e-mail addresses to set up each one. And we never found the messages on Gabe’s laptop until after . . . you know. So it’s not like we can just ask him who had it in for him.”
Dr. Myers considered this for a moment. She mused, “Maybe that’s for the best, as unlikely as it may seem. You’ll never get closure if you’re constantly seeking answers that don’t exist. And having someone to blame, to channel all your anger toward, can hinder the healing process. Some people find themselves constantly dreaming about exacting revenge, and if you have a face to attach to that, it can quickly become an obsession. An obsession that ultimately will destroy you, without ever soothing your heartache.”
G A B E H A D A birthmark on his forearm. It was
“How did you feel about it?”
“Honestly? It never really bothered me. I was proud of him for coming out, obviously, but I just never understood what the big deal was. And like I said, it just kind of fit. It wasn’t unexpected.”
“I see.”
Kayla stared into her hands, examining the crescent-shaped indents her nails had left behind. They still stung a little. “We were all so supportive. We loved him to bits. He brought a boy around, once, before they went on a date. My dad gave the guy a stern talking to, like he would if I was seeing someone, and said stuff like, ‘You take care of my son, now,’ just like it was normal. Which it was. My mum quizzed him all about it when he got home. She put the kettle on, and despite his bashful grin, she insisted he told her everything over a cuppa. What Zack’s parents did, did Zack offer to pay for the meal, did he smell nice. It didn’t work out with Zack—he didn’t smell that nice at all—but we just knew everything would be fine.
“Everyone loved him. He did well in his exams, and he helped his friends study by sharing his notes. He played rugby for the town, and he went to parties and gigs too. He loved music. Not as a performer, though—everyone in our family is rhythmically challenged. And he’d recently told my parents he wanted to go traveling after school, and he was so excited for that. He was just a normal seventeen-year-old. Liking the same sex was nothing but . . . a side note.
“But then he started getting these messages. On Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr. At first, they were nasty, but not threatening. ‘You make me sick, you fucking faggot.’ ” Dr. Myers flinched at the profanity, though she tried her best to disguise it. Kayla swallowed the bile rising in her throat and continued. “ ‘You disgust me. You’re sick.’ That kind of thing. Disgusting, disgusting abuse. Then . . . then they got worse. Much worse. They said they were going to . . . They threatened to anally rape him, because ‘that’s the way you like it,’ and then they said . . .” Kayla cleared her throat. “Then they said they were going to rape me in front of him, to show him how it should be done.”
A pause. Dr. Myers was initially lost for words, but she recovered quickly. “I’m so sorry to hear that, Kayla. Really, I am.” She blew out through her lips, causing them to vibrate. “Was there a police investigation? They can be difficult to deal with when you’re grieving.”
Kayla shook her head. “No. Not an extensive one anyway. Once they’d ruled it as suicide, what was the point? Online bullying is, sadly, very common. That’s what they told my bereaved parents, anyway. As if Gabe was just another statistic.”
“I understand that must have been difficult, Kay—”
“You don’t, though. Nobody does, and nobody ever will. I desperately need somebody to blame, somebody other than myself, but there’s no one . The social media accounts were anonymous, all under different names. Whoever it was—if it was only one person—used different e-mail addresses to set up each one. And we never found the messages on Gabe’s laptop until after . . . you know. So it’s not like we can just ask him who had it in for him.”
Dr. Myers considered this for a moment. She mused, “Maybe that’s for the best, as unlikely as it may seem. You’ll never get closure if you’re constantly seeking answers that don’t exist. And having someone to blame, to channel all your anger toward, can hinder the healing process. Some people find themselves constantly dreaming about exacting revenge, and if you have a face to attach to that, it can quickly become an obsession. An obsession that ultimately will destroy you, without ever soothing your heartache.”
G A B E H A D A birthmark on his forearm. It was
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