I have memories. Vivid memories. Bright memories that is registered in the back of my mind. That still lives inside it. That breathes every breath I take. But today I’m talking about a certain memory. It’s a particular matter. It’s a subject. A feeling.

It’s hate.

I was eight years old. There was this boy. This boy at school. Josh. We were playing as usual in the school yard during lunch break and I had put on my favourite Ramones t-shirt that my father once had given me. Fully autographed. Fully everything. And I loved it. I thought I was the coolest kid on the block walking around with it. I probably was. And I felt like a true rock star. Hell, I even looked like a true rock star.

I remember it so clearly. It was a sunny Wednesday and Judy, my neighbour, who also happened to be my best friend at the time, was home from school. She had the flu. Puking her guts out once every hour. I remember it because I was terrified to visit her that week. I was petrified that I would catch it if I came near her and since throwing up never have been my cup of tea I choose to stay away as far as I could.

Anyway.

We were playing tag, Josh and I, and he was after me this time. He was chasing me like a lion going after an innocent little antelope on the savannah and I ran like I’ve never run before. And I was fast. Believe me. I was fast. You know, back in the days where cigarettes wasn’t even a word in my vocabulary and the fact that you could even be short of breath was an unknown phenomenon for me.

After what felt like hours of running my legs started to give in. I became a bit tired. A bit slower. And for every single second that I gradually started to slow down he came closer. And closer. And closer. When he finally reached his prey, otherwise known as me, he jumped right at me, causing us both to fall down hard against the concrete, ripping my shirt in two during the fall.