There’s a face I see every time I close my eyes. Not a comforting face, not a loving one. It’s a ghost, really. A ghost of someone I broke, all because I was too much of a coward to face my own crumbling self. And it haunts me in a way I never thought possible.
I was different back then. Or, I thought I was. I was the one who laughed loud, the one with the quick wit, the one who always knew what to say, even if it was at someone else’s expense. Especially if it was at someone else’s expense. I needed to be the sharpest, the funniest, the best. It was a shield, I know that now. A flimsy, glittering armor protecting a hollow, terrified core.
Then there was them. Quiet. Always a little disheveled. Their clothes never quite fit right, their hair always seemed to have a mind of its own. They moved with a peculiar stiffness, a slight tremor in their hands sometimes, especially when they were nervous, which was often. They were an easy target. Too easy. And I, in my pathetic pursuit of perceived strength, took aim.
he table and rested her hand gently over mine.
A smiling woman sitting at a table | Source: Midjourney
It started subtly. A whispered joke when they stumbled in the hall. A raised eyebrow when their voice cracked during a presentation. An exaggerated sigh when they fumbled for words. My friends would laugh, and I would feel a surge of power, a fleeting warmth that momentarily silenced the gnawing fear inside me that I wasn’t enough. That I was actually just as clumsy, just as awkward, just as fundamentally wrong as them.
The cruelty escalated. It always does, doesn’t it? My insecurity demanded a constant sacrifice, and they were the offering I kept burning. There was one day, though. One specific moment that seared itself into my memory, an inferno I revisit nightly. It was during a mandatory public speaking assignment. Their turn came. They shuffled to the front of the room, clutching a stack of cue cards that trembled visibly in their grip. Their voice was a whisper at first, then a reedy, strained drone. They kept losing their place, their eyes darting wildly. They stumbled over a word, then coughed, a dry, rasping sound.
A stack of money | Source: Pexels
That’s when I did it. I mimicked their cough, loud and exaggerated, right into my sleeve, just enough for everyone to hear. My friends snickered. Others joined in. A ripple of laughter spread across the room, drowning out their already fragile words. They stopped. Their head dropped. Their shoulders slumped. I saw their eyes, just for a second, before they looked away, and they were filled with a raw, agonizing humiliation I will never, ever forget. The teacher finally stepped in, but the damage was done. They sat down, shrinking into themselves, tears undoubtedly stinging their eyes, though I couldn’t see them.
I remember feeling a flicker of something then. Not regret, not exactly. More like… a slight discomfort. But it was quickly overshadowed by the thrill of the chase, the warmth of the collective laughter I’d orchestrated. I was powerful. I was safe. I was not them. They never came back to that class. Eventually, they left school altogether. I heard they moved away. I didn’t think about it much after that. I just moved on, basking in my self-made spotlight, continuing to carve out a persona of effortless superiority.
A smiling older woman | Source: Midjourney
Years passed. Life got complicated, as it tends to do. The high-school bravado faded, replaced by adult anxieties. My perfect facade started to crack. I began to feel… off. A persistent, crushing fatigue settled in my bones. My joints ached constantly. Sometimes my hands would tremble when I tried to hold a cup of coffee. My thoughts became foggy, my memory unreliable. I started stumbling more, dropping things. My muscles would spasm randomly, uncontrollably. What was happening to me?
Doctor after doctor. Test after test. I lived in a constant state of fear, of uncertainty. My work suffered. My relationships frayed. I felt exposed, vulnerable, weak. Everything I had ever tried to hide about myself, everything I had mocked in others, was now my reality. I was terrified. Truly, deeply terrified.
Finally, after months of agonizing waiting and invasive procedures, the diagnosis came. It was a rare, progressive neurological disorder. Autoimmune. Chronic. No cure, only management. The doctor explained it carefully, describing how it affected the nervous system, leading to muscle weakness, tremors, fatigue, cognitive difficulties, speech issues. He said it was often misdiagnosed, particularly in its early stages. He said it could make simple acts, like walking or holding a pen, feel like climbing a mountain.
A takeaway bag on a table | Source: Midjourney
I numbly thanked him, the words echoing in a cavern of despair. I started doing my own research, desperate for answers, for hope. I joined online forums, read medical journals, scoured personal blogs of others living with this condition. It was a lonely, overwhelming journey.
One evening, deep down a rabbit hole of a support group, I stumbled upon a post. It was an old one, years old, written by someone detailing their initial struggles, their diagnosis, their experiences. The description of their symptoms hit me like a physical blow. The specific way their hands trembled when they tried to write. The way their voice would sometimes catch and crack. The peculiar stiffness in their movements. The constant exhaustion, the brain fog. The way they felt like their own body was betraying them, making them clumsy, awkward, and different.
I froze. A cold dread seeped into my bones, a horrifying realization starting to unfurl in my mind. The post was anonymous, but they had mentioned their age, the general region they lived in when they were first diagnosed, even a vague reference to their high school.
It couldn’t be. Could it?
A smiling little boy holding an ice cream cone | Source: Midjourney
I spent the rest of the night digging. Days. Weeks. I found old archived news articles about a local support group for this specific condition, from around the time I would have been in high school. There was a photo. A blurred group shot, but distinct enough. And there, in the back, sitting down while others stood, a familiar face. A familiar posture. A familiar, slight tremor in their hands as they held a pamphlet.
It was them.
THE PERSON I HAD MOCKED, THE PERSON I HAD HUMILIATED, THE PERSON WHOSE EVERY AWKWARD MOVEMENT I HAD CRUELLY MIMICKED, HAD BEEN SUFFERING FROM THE EXACT SAME DEBILITATING ILLNESS I NOW HAD.
My own fear of appearing weak, my own insecurity about my hidden struggles that hadn’t even fully manifested yet, had driven me to inflict unimaginable pain on someone who was already living through my worst nightmare. All their quirks, all their perceived weaknesses, every single thing I had targeted with such malicious precision, was a symptom of the very disease that was now slowly consuming me. They weren’t clumsy. They weren’t stupid. They weren’t weak. They were fighting. They were enduring.
A smiling older woman | Source: Midjourney
I wasn’t just cruel to them. I was cruel to a reflection of my own future. I was cruel to a kindred spirit I didn’t recognize. And the cost of that cruelty, fueled by my own pathetic, hidden insecurity, is not just my pain now. It’s the knowledge that when they needed kindness, understanding, and empathy the most, all I offered was a guttural laugh and a mimicry of their suffering.
I broke them for being exactly who I am now. And I will carry that truth, that horrifying, heartbreaking, soul-crushing truth, for the rest of my life. There’s no forgiveness for this. Not from them, not from me. Just the ghost of a face, and the echo of my own cruel laughter, forever ringing in my ears.
