This is a conversation between Craig and Rick. NOT SLASH.

- - -

Only through understanding can there truly be forgiveness. Only through forgiveness can there truly be healing.

I lazily spun the dial on my locker and swung it open. Grabbing my textbooks and my Media Immersion notebook, I slammed my locker and headed down the hall to Mr. Simpson's classroom. I turned the corner, and walked straight into Paige.

"Oh, sorry—"I realized she wasn't looking at me, instead glaring at a point down the hall. I followed her eyes and saw Rick walking slowly down the hallway, head down, shoulders slumped. He was so busy concentrating on the floor that he bumped into Spinner. I watched as Spinner whirled around and, seeing who it was, shoved Rick hard. He tripped into a girl who pulled away, her face twisted with disgust, and landed on his butt in the middle of the hallway.

Everyone ignored him, and no one helped him up. After all, who wants to associate with the scum of the underworld? Spinner stood over him, his fists clenching and unclenching, glaring down at Rick. Rick glared back for a moment, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as if trying to control his emotions. Then he scrambled to his feet and, breathing hard, scurried off down the hallway.

Paige just as quickly whirled around and stomped away. I turned also. It was becoming a regular occurrence, the way Rick was being treated. But who really cared? He deserved everything he was getting, and more.

All of a sudden, Liberty the overachiever came lurching out of a side classroom, a large bucket of purple paint in her grasp. Guess who was right in her path? Liberty tripped and the paint—all 10 gallons of it—came flying out and right onto my shirt. My bright orange shirt.

Liberty ran over, apologizing profusely. "Ohmygosh, Craig, I'm sooooooo sorry. I didn't mean to—I, um, oh, I'm sorry! Sorry, sorry, sorry..."

I stared in shock at the brownish purple blob on my shirt. "Ummm, uhh..." Liberty moaned. "I'm sooo so—"

I held up a hand to shut her up. "It's okay," I said quietly. "I'll just, um, go to the bathroom and clean this up..." I walked slowly down the hallway to the boys' bathroom and placed my slightly spattered but still useable stuff on the sink beside me and began the task of wringing out my sopping shirt.

"Great," I muttered to myself. "Now I'm gonna be late to MI. And we have that test today, too! Urgh."

I grabbed some paper towels and tried to soak up the paint still leaving a prominent mark on my T-shirt. But it was official. This shirt was ruined.

I was about to turn on the sink and wash my inky hands off when I heard a sound at the end of the row of stalls. I paused a moment, and heard, it again—a shaky intake of breath and then a very quiet, muffled sob.

I squinted. Someone crying? In the boys' bathroom? I turned and slowly walked down the row of toilet stalls. It was getting closer, closer. I stopped at the last stall in the corner. It was soft, but unmistakable—someone was in there.

I quietly pushed open the stall door. There, with his head in his hands, was Rick. His books were strewn on the floor in front of them, as if he had just dropped them there. His quiet but sharp breaths filled the stall, and even as I stood right in front of him, he didn't notice me.

I should have just left him there. After all, everything that was happening to him, he totally deserved. It was all his fault, all his problem. Not mine. I should have just washed my hands and left.

But something made me hesitate. Even now, I'm not sure what.

"Rick?"

Rick's head shot up, and his eyes widened as he saw me. He stood up quickly and angrily rubbed the tears out of his eyes. "What?"

"Um, what are you doing?"

"Nothing," he said and scooped up his books. He edged past me, shrinking away as if he thought I would hit him just for being there.

As he walked away, I felt compelled to say something. Anything. "Why were you crying?"

Rick sighed heavily, but didn't turn around. "Isn't it obvious?"

As he stood there, shrunken, resigned, guilty, I was reminded painfully of my father. I bit my lip.

"My dad beat me, you know."

Rick turned around, his eyes widened with shock, guilt, and surprisingly, sympathy. "Oh. Gee. I'm—sorry about that." He refused to meet my eye. I took a step toward him, struggling not to cry, even after all these years.

"Do you how much it sucked? I felt like I wasn't good enough, like I was doing something wrong, like everything was all my fault. I hated it, I hated him, I hated myself."

Rick put his head in his hands again, and I could tell that he also was trying not to cry. "I'm an idiot. I'm a butthead. Everyone hates me. I hate me. My life is hell. Why don't I just end it right now? You probably wouldn't even care." Rick sat down hard on the floor.

I stared down at him, taken aback. After a moment of silence, I squatted next to him and tried to find my voice. "D-don't—don't do that." I took a deep breath, tears rolling down my cheeks. "I—I thought I hated my dad. He hit me almost daily. When I moved out, I didn't miss him at all. B-but when he—when he died—"

My voice faltered. Both of us sat for a while, just crying.

"I hated what he did to me, not him. I—I loved my dad..."

Rick stared at me through eyes full of tears. "I put my own girlfriend in a coma! She didn't do anything. She loved me, and—and all I did was hurt her. I'm scum, worse than scum. I deserve everything, don't I?" He relapsed into tears. I wiped my own eyes with the back of my hand and placed it on his shaking shoulders.

"I don't know."

We sat on the floor of the bathroom a long time, the sounds of Rick's sobs echoing off the walls. Finally, his crying subsided, and his breathing returned to normal. I stood up and offered a paint-covered hand to Rick, who accepted it and pulled himself up. I washed my hands, grabbed my books, and turned around. Rick was still there, standing silently in front of me with his head down, his eyes red and blotchy.

"What?"

Rick met my eye and managed a smile. "Thanks."