September
1997

To twelve-year-old John, everything about the place seemed cold and unfeeling.

The gray walls, the dull hum of fluorescent lights above, and the distant clinking of boots and keys in the hallway contributed to this atmosphere.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting in that room, but the stale air of the juvenile detention center felt like a second skin. It was a stark contrast to the outside world.

For John, it felt like he was being punished for something he didn't believe he had done wrong. He sat rigidly on the hard chair in the small, lifeless room, his hands tightly gripping the table. His bruised and swollen knuckles stood out, a testament to his anger.

The fight earlier still burned in his mind.

Billy Croft.

The name alone made his clench his teeth from the inside jaw tight.

John appeared youthful, his face marked by a few bruises and a developing black eye, where shades of purple and blue merged like a darkened ring. His messy bowl-cut hair had strands hanging across his forehead. 

Wearing his school uniform, which was now crumpled, he wore a simple white button-up shirt tucked into navy trousers, showing scuff marks at the knees. His shoes, worn and with fraying laces, tapped restlessly against the concrete floor, as if his body couldn't remain still.

He sniffed once, his head tilted up as if to glare at the ceiling and then his eyes scanned around.

Two cameras were watching him from the front and behind.

He frowned and scrunched up his nose, as if dismissing whoever was behind the camera observing him. John couldn't care less because he still believed the principal, the man behind the desk, was being a dick.

He was aware that he and the principal didn't get along.

The principal was eager to find a reason to send him to a detention center, labeling him a juvenile delinquent, or to accuse him of fighting or ditching classes. While he had occasionally skipped classes due to his brother Marcus's influence, John had quit doing so because of his other brother, Thomas, and his mother.

The image of Billy shoving that smaller child and laughing as if he ruled the playground reignited anger in John's heart.

Without a second thought, he had rushed in, swinging his fists before he could even process his actions. Billy's arrogant expression had collapsed with the first punch. And yet, here John was. Paying the price. Alone.

His ears caught the soft sound of footsteps growing closer. The door swung open with a creak that shattered the silence like a thunderclap, and in came his mother, Olivia Price.

Though not tall, her presence made known to him not to speak (since he was in trouble). She wore a simple dark green wool coat over a well-worn white shirt and khaki pants. Her hair was tied back, with a few strands escaping in her rush. Her face bore the marks of labor years, but her piercing icy blue eyes—both warm and sharp—retained their intensity.

Olivia didn't need to raise her voice to demand attention; just one look from her was enough to hold John in place. He felt small under her scrutiny. His insides churned with guilt, though his expression stayed defiant.

"Johnathan," she said, carrying equal measures of disappointment and calm.

Initially, he kept his gaze down, clenching his fists even tighter as his bruised knuckles ached against his palms.

"Mum..." he whispered, struggling to express himself. "I didn't mean—"

Olivia approached and took a seat in the chair across from him. She observed him for a moment, her eyes traveling over his bruised hands, then lingering on the new bruise on his cheek and his blackened eye. John shifted his eyes away from her.

"Look at me," she said in a stern tone.

John paused, his eyes finally meeting hers. 

The guilt he had been trying to suppress seeped through his carefully constructed facade. Her eyes softened, and without uttering a single word, she reached across the table and grabbed his hand over hers. Years of hard work to support her two sons had left her hands calloused, yet they were still soft and strong. Even so, she handled his bruised hand with care.

"What happened?" she asked in her tone even.

John swallowed.

"It wasn't my fault," he started, "He was bullying a kid—shoving him and picking on him constantly." His voice was shaky at first but gained strength as he continued. "Nobody else was stepping in. I couldn't just watch."

"You couldn't walk away instead?" Olivia questioned, arching an eyebrow.

"Walk away?" John asked, nearly incredulous. "You've always told me to stand up for others. That's what you taught me!"

Olivia exhaled deeply, shaking her head while squeezing his hand. "I didn't say you should throw punches whenever something seems off or when someone is unable to retaliate. I said you should defend those who can't defend themselves. There's a difference."

John winced as the words struck him like a sharp sting. "But if I hadn't acted, what would have happened to that kid?"

Olivia gazed into his eyes with a nearly sorrowful expression.

"John," she murmured, "I love you. You have a fire in you, but if you let that a anger burn you. You'll end up hurting yourself and those around you. That's exactly where you are right now."

His expression turned somber, his eyes lowering to the table as her words hit him again. He understood what she meant. At times, it was overwhelming, like he couldn't stop the fire from burring the more he couldn't control himself.

"I didn't mean to hurt him," John said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I know you don't," Olivia replied sternly. "But fighting isn't always the answer. True strength lies in recognizing when to stand your ground and when to step away so you aren't taken advantage of later, Johnathan. Do you understand?"

John bit the inside of his cheek. A part of him didn't want to agree with her, but his logical side of him knew she was right.

"This world will eat you alive," Olivia remarked, letting go of his hand and fixing him with a serious look. "You'll always deal with bullies, who will either have true intentions or are plainly cruel. My main worry is that if you continue letting your emotions cloud your judgment. Nobody will clean up your mess, but you. Use your head and not your heart, son."

He let her words sink in.

She was right. 

He had acted rashly, letting his anger get the better of him. 

The fight he had done hadn't solved anything, only landed him in more trouble. He took a deep breath and averted his gaze from her.

"I'm sorry, Mum," he said finally. "I should have walked away."

"You should have," Olivia said before she sighed. "But, it's done. You just need to learn to think before you act—to use this." She tapped a finger to his temple.

As he glanced at his mother, he blinked back the tears that welled in his eyes.

Which made her eyes softened a bit.

"I know you want to help, John. It's one of the things I admire most about you," Olivia said gently. "But you have to be smart. Violence should always be the last resort. Your mind is your most powerful weapon. Remember that."

John took a shaky breath, straightening in his chair.

"I will."

She reached over across and squeezed his hand before standing up.

"Come on, let's get you cleaned up. We'll deal with the principal tomorrow."

As they walked out of the room and leaving the detention center. 

They made their way towards her car, John couldn't help but mull over his mother's words. He knew she was right; he needed to control his temper if he wanted to make it in this world. But at the same time, how could he stand by and watch injustice happen right in front of him?

It was a constant inner battle he faced.