Small Town Boy

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I try to remember what I remember about him. We shared the same grade and the same first name. He was different. He was born with pure white hair—some genetic thing—which I thought was cool. That was not what made him different. We were young enough that we didn’t know what the difference was, but we all knew what the difference was. He was bullied and tortured by his classmates, because. After he killed himself, no one spoke of him again. I hid because I was different too. When I remember him, I feel my hair turning white.