It was a deer's carcass, to be exact, that lie on its side by the highway not far from the crossroads but not close either; deer don't care to die too close to the crossroads, or at least that's what Mrs. Jones had told Warner when he was young. He couldn't quite remember what had prompted Mrs. Jones to tell him that, only that he was certain she had. Regardless, it was lying there, its blood staining the long grass beneath it and its eyes glassy and cold. Warner stared at it and felt understood. He too, was dead. I'm getting ahead of myself.
    Several months before, a coalition of boys in his class had waged a war. It was them against Warner, on account of how they couldn't effectively wage war on Brutus, for he was too large to be injured by them and too oblivious to really understand if they had tried to use their words. It wasn't as if there was much reason to hate him, it was simply that he was a strange and unusual character in their small (yet too, strange and unusual) world. Brutus was kind, even though he had been wretchedly abused, and gentle, despite his large size. He wasn't stupid, contrary to popular belief, he simply chose to use his talents outside of the schoolhouse. Literally. He would sit, cross legged in the field, pulling grass up through his knuckles and letting it go again only to grasp another fistful, and talk to the air. You could watch him through the window all day and he wouldn't move except to go to lunch or to the bathroom or to recess where he would move out to the playground to sit and pick at fistfuls of playground mulch and talk to the air or to Warner, his only living friend. Warner liked Brutus. They took to each other easily, talking and laughing and playing or simply sitting in comfortable silence next to each other, their feet dangling in the stream.
    It began slowly, actually. All the boys had been playing outside in the heat of midday when Warner felt a sharp sting on the back of his neck. He thought he had been bit by something, instinctually reaching back to feel where there might be a bump, but found nothing but a small acorn which had fallen and caught in the folds down the back of his shirt. Someone had thrown it at him, and hard. He passed it off as roughhousing, but afterwards it only escalated until Warner and Brutus were the center of a competition of who could torture them most effectively. Throughout the summer it worsened with the heat. It was always petty, meaningless annoyances punctuated with the occasional beating. And then the storm began.
    Brutus and Warner were out in a sunny field, laying around lazily. Their bikes were turned over beside them. Brutus played his banjo and Warner sang along, all the while laughing and letting the sun beat on their skin. They watched clouds roll in without a care in the world. No one had bothered them for several days. They thought it might have been the end of it.
    "Hey, Warner." A calm voice called. It was Owen MacCullough, a notoriously smart boy with a terrifying mean streak. "Brutus." He nodded towards him, a smirk on his face.
    "Get outta here, Owen." Warner stood up. "Ain't you tired yet?" It was then he noted the boys who had come in attendance. It should be noted that previously, the attacks were led by a couple different groups, each with a clear ringleader. This group was new, comprised of each ringleader of each small group. Not a deferential head among them. Warner knew then that this time, it would be different.
    "Just leave us alone." Brutus pleaded from his spot in the grass. "We ain't done nothing to you."
    "Shut up, Lennie, or we won't let you tend the rabbits." Said another boy. Several of them giggled. Brutus just stared at them blankly before opening his mouth to speak.
    "We said shut up," Owen huffed. "This isn't about you. Why don't you go on home, now. We're just here for your friend."
    "Nuh-uh," Brutus frowned. "I'm not leavin' him."
    "Go, Brutus." Warner shook his head. "You go on ahead, I'll catch up." Though his heart began to pound, he knew he couldn't let Brutus get involved in whatever this was, or it would only make it worse.
    "But--"
    "I said go," Warner spoke, his voice close to breaking. He watched as Brutus walked slowly away, turning his head to the side and talking to the air.
    Warner turned back to the crowd of his peers.
    "Run." Owen ordered simply. Warner stared wildly at them, greyhounds after their rabbit, and turned, running full tilt into the woods. He estimated about thirty seconds before they started after him, whooping and hollering as the black clouds rolled in above them. Warner ran as fast as he could along the creek that he knew would lead back towards home, and though he knew the woods like the back of his hand, the rain that began pouring nearly blinded him, filling his shirt heavy with water and raising the creek and turning the warm red clay shiny and wet beneath his sneakers. He tripped over a tree root, falling on his face in the mud. For a moment he forgot where he was. There was only the mud, and the rain, and the fastest heartbeat he had ever felt beating heavy in his own chest. And then there were the boys behind him, yanking him up by his arms and holding him hostage there under the driving rain. He thought he heard Brutus whistling that banjo tune he had been playing earlier, but he knew it could only have been his imagination, and that was the last thought he had before he was being thrown into the rushing creek, and then the water was cold, and then he was thrashed around in it, and then he struck his head upon a rock, and that was it.

    "Warner!" Brutus called, walking down the banks of the creek. It had stopped raining, but the dampness hung in the air still, and the boys who had targeted them were nowhere to be found. It was only Brutus and the rushing creek, and the body of his former only living friend lying on the bank. Warner slowly came to realize what he was looking at. Brutus was crying, staring him in the face. He wasn't looking at the body.
    "Brutus," He spoke gently. Brutus smiled. He heard him.
    "Hey, buddy." Brutus reached out to touch him, but didn't make any contact. He was talking to air.