I Tried to Kill a Guy with a Spork!

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By Bethany “BST2” Armstrong

I missed all the red flags. My best friend – the one who wore Green with me on every Wednesday at school, the one who sang “Insane in the Brain” with me down the hallways, the one that was supposed to be my bestie for life – was molested from a very young age. She was 16 when her mother whisked her way, because she was pregnant. Another flag I missed.

The first flag came around 2nd grade, when she told me that her cat had sex with her. I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. She told me to keep her secret and I did. Red freaking flag. I missed it. I let her down.

The stories got more graphic, using words I didn’t understand. “My cat humps my pussy.” “My cat has a big dick and it makes me sore.” I told her that she should get rid of her cat but she told me she loved her cat and wanted to make it happy. RED FLAG RED FLAG. I didn’t say a word. I let her down again.

When she put her hands down her pants and told me she “felt horny” in fourth grade, I was confused. I knew it was a grown-up thing but I still didn’t tell an adult. I should have… I let her down.
When we started wearing Green on Hump Day – because there was a rumor that green M&Ms made you horny – I thought nothing of it. We were high schoolers now, being a little naughty was fun. Wednesdays were the days her mother worked late and she was alone with her dad. I knew this but I didn’t connect the dots. I let her down.

My bestie disappeared from my life without a word. There was no chance to say goodbye. Her mother had taken her as far from Michigan as she could get, Texas. A new start, a new life. Her cousin told me why. The arrest of her father in the news confirmed it. I missed all the flags. I let her down.

I was working at KFC when he strolled in a free man. The next thing I remember is being dragged to the break room by the fry-cooks, two burly young men. I kept saying “He hurt my friend. He hurt my friend.” The manager listened to my story and threw him out. When I calmed, I listened to the fry-cooks telling the tale to the incoming shift.

I had grabbed the closest thing to me – a friggen spork – and leaped onto the counter. I had the spork poised to stab, like the killer from Psycho, and I was preparing to leap when the fry-cooks grabbed me. They thought it was hilarious how quickly I got on the counter and how the blood drained from my near-victims face. I let her down again by failing, in the most absurd of ways, to kill her father.

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