Date: April 22, 2025
Author: Rachel Donnelly
When I was seven, I learned two things: that justice doesn’t always come from adults, and that guilt can sit in your chest like a stone even when you get away with it.
There was this boy in my class—his name was Liam—and he was everyone’s personal nightmare. He had a habit of pulling girls’ ponytails, making fun of kids who stuttered, and once even stomped on a kid’s pencil case just because he could. No one liked him. Not the teachers, not even the other boys who usually liked chaos.
One day after recess, I was the last one to put away my coat in the tiny cloakroom tucked behind our classroom. It was quiet, and I don’t know what came over me exactly, but I just… snapped. I took a red crayon from my backpack—my least favorite color, ironically—and scribbled all over the wall. Big looping swirls and then, without really thinking, I scrawled:
“Liam is dumb – from Liam”
I walked back into class like nothing happened.
A few days later, the teachers found it. There was a whole investigation, complete with classroom silence and threats of detention. Liam was called out in front of everyone. He denied it, obviously. But given his reputation, no one really believed him. He got stuck with extra cleaning duty and had to apologize to the class, even though I could tell he had no idea what he was apologizing for.
And I just sat there, watching it all unfold. I should have felt victorious. But I didn’t.
I don’t think Liam ever changed much after that, but I did. I realized how easy it is to cross that line—the one between right and wrong—when you think the person on the other side deserves it. I never told anyone it was me. Not my friends, not my parents, not even now… until here.
I don’t know if what I did really made a difference. But sometimes I still think about that red crayon and the way my hands didn’t shake when I wrote those words. And how maybe, even when you’re seven, revenge doesn’t taste as sweet as you think it will.
