What’s the Most Shocking Announcement Your School Ever Made?

We lived in a one-story house, so it was easy to climb out. I grabbed my bike from the garage, careful not to knock over any of the garden tools, and started pedaling.

The whole ride there, I kept thinking about that video. Those bruises looked so real, and Alvin’s face looked genuinely scared, not like he was acting.

The night was dark and the streetlights cast long shadows across the empty roads as I pedaled harder, desperate to find out if the boy I loved was really alive. The ride took forever.

My legs were burning like fire and I had to stop twice to catch my breath, leaning over my handlebars and gasping in the cold night air. The forest road was pitch black, darker than anything I’d ever experienced, and I only had my phone flashlight to see.

The narrow beam barely cut through the darkness, illuminating just a few feet of cracked asphalt ahead. Every shadow looked like something waiting to jump out at me.

Finally, I saw the cabin up ahead, a small light glowing in one window like a beacon. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might explode right through my chest.

I left my bike by a large oak tree and walked up to the door, my sneakers crunching on dead leaves. Before I could knock, it opened and there was Alvin.

He looked even worse than in the video. The bruises on his face had turned darker purple and green, spreading across his left cheek like spilled paint.

His right eye was nearly swollen shut. He pulled me inside quickly and locked the door behind us, sliding the deadbolt with shaking hands.

I wanted to hug him, but something felt off. He was acting jumpy and kept looking out the window, pulling back the raggedy curtain every few seconds.

The cabin was small and smelled like mold and something else—fear, maybe. There was a sleeping bag in the corner and some canned food on a rickety table that looked like it might collapse at any moment.

He told me to sit down and started talking really fast, words tumbling over each other. He said his dad had been hitting him since he was little.

It started with slaps when he got bad grades, then punches when he talked back. Last night his dad threw him down the stairs because he forgot to take out the trash.

He said he couldn’t take it anymore and had to run. I asked why he didn’t just tell someone.

He laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. It was bitter and broken.

He said his dad was respected in town, coached Little League, and went to church every Sunday, shaking hands with everyone after service. Nobody would believe him.

Plus, his dad always threatened to kill him if he ever told anyone. He lifted his shirt and showed me more bruises on his back and legs.

Some looked like belt marks, long and thin. Others were round, like from fists.

I felt sick to my stomach. All those times he wore long sleeves in summer, saying he was cold; all those times he said he fell off his skateboard or walked into a door.

I should have known something was wrong. The signs were all there.

Then he dropped the bomb. He said he’d been stealing money from his dad’s hardware store for months.

Just small amounts from the register that wouldn’t be noticed, twenty here, thirty there. He needed it to run away, to survive on his own.

But here’s the messed-up part: he put my name on some fake receipts. He said I was helping with inventory after school, getting paid under the table.

I told him that was insane. “Why would you do that?”

He said he needed insurance. If his dad ever found out about the missing money, he could blame it on me.

That way his dad wouldn’t hit him as bad. Maybe he would just yell instead of using his fists.

I stood up to leave, but he grabbed my arm. Not hard, but firm enough to make me stop.

His fingers felt desperate. He said I couldn’t go yet.

He needed me to understand; his whole plan wasn’t finished. He was going to lay low for a few days, let the bruises photograph better, then contact the police about the abuse.

But he needed those receipts as leverage against his dad. If his dad tried to deny the abuse, Alvin would threaten to expose the theft and say his dad made him do it.

The logic was twisted, but I could see how it made sense to him. I told him this was crazy.

Using me like that wasn’t okay. He started crying and saying he was sorry, tears mixing with the dried blood on his face.

He said that he never meant to hurt me. He just didn’t know what else to do.

He’d been planning this for so long and I was the only person he trusted. I tried to leave again, but then I noticed something that made my stomach drop.

My bike tires were flat, both of them. I asked what happened to my bike, trying to keep my voice steady.

He said it must have been a coincidence. Maybe I ran over some glass on the way here.

But I knew he was lying. His eyes wouldn’t meet mine, darting around the room instead.

I told him to let me use his phone to call someone. He said he threw it away so his dad couldn’t track him.

He said he dropped it in the river on his way here. This was getting scary.

I was stuck in the middle of nowhere with no way to leave. He kept saying I just needed to stay for a little while until he figured out his next move.

He promised he’d make it right and fix my bike in the morning. But the way he was acting reminded me of something.

The way he was trying to control the situation, making excuses, apologizing then doing it again—it was just like how he described his dad. I pretended to calm down and said I understood.

I sat back down on the creaky wooden chair and asked him to tell me more about his plan. While he talked, I looked around the cabin for anything useful.

There was an old landline phone on the wall, but when I asked about it he said it was disconnected years ago. He had answers for everything.

He’d clearly thought this through. He probably spent hours planning every detail.

He showed me a notebook where he’d been writing down all the times his dad hurt him. Dates, descriptions, everything was in his neat handwriting.

“June 3rd, belt, 10 strikes. July 19th, punched in stomach. Couldn’t breathe.” The list went on for pages.

He also showed me copies of the fake receipts with my name on them. My signature was forged pretty well, good enough to fool someone who didn’t look too close.

The Escape, the Arrest, and the Aftermath

He’d been practicing. The next morning I woke up on the floor, my back aching from the hardwood.

Alvin had given me the sleeping bag and he slept sitting up in a chair by the door, like he was guarding it, or guarding me. I said I needed to use the bathroom and he pointed to an outhouse outside.

He followed me there and waited right outside, humming nervously. I could see his shadow through the gaps in the wood.