His Name Was Not Important
/His name was Rafael, but I never called him that.
His name was Cakethief, and I only knew him online. It was a strange occurrence. A meeting of chance that might have entirely been missed, fates ricocheting apart like colliding bullets.
His name was Shideus, and he was just a kid. I met him online in a player versus player part of a video game. I had just figuratively thrown his character into a trash can, and was busy scanning for new opponents. While searching, I received a private message. It was from the person I just beat. I was very used to hate mail, as that community could be quite toxic. Against my better judgement, I opened up the message.
His name was Vaughan, and he had no respect for rules. Authority was a thing to be defied. He argued for committing crimes before he turned eighteen. He rationalized it by saying that his record would be wiped when he came of age. Technically the truth. Vaughan thrived on technicalities. I once worked in a graveyard. He suggested stealing from the tombs and plots. According to him, it wasn’t being used, nobody would miss it. Another technicality.
His name was Airos, and he wasn’t straight. Airos didn’t have the luxury that I had of living in a first world country. Airos lived in Brazil, a place that was no stranger to persecution of homosexuals. I was the first person he came out to, and even during that conversation I could sense the unease in his voice. It seemed like he expected to be beaten up during the entire discussion. I didn’t care about his gender preference, and he was relieved. From there on, I would become his confidant. I curiously listened to his tentative first steps in finding a kindred spirit, or at least safe companionship. I hope I helped.
His name was Rafacreu, and he was stubborn. Calling him irrepressible would be an understatement. His opinions were ironclad, and his determination was to match. We spent hours playing games against each other, with me usually winning. He would never get mad though. He always asked for advice, always prodded for observations. Each match would follow up with pointers and thoughts from my end, proceeded with another game. One day, he started winning.
His name was Axm, his daily life could be dangerous. He wasn’t strong by any measure, and even school could be unsafe. He claimed to have been mugged more than once on his way back from home. Robberies, break ins, and violent crime were common in his part of the world. It was apparently something he had gotten used to. “I’ve gotten very good at running,” he would tell me.
His name was Yien, and he was curious beyond measure. I was an older brother to him, and he always came to me with something exciting he had discovered. I would help him interpret the world around him, while still leaving room for him to make his own decisions. Every question had a follow-up, and no stone was left unturned. Together, he learned that it’s OK to not know something.
His name was Prince Ricard, and he was an activist. Brazil was a hotbed of corruption, and he wasn’t one to stand aside. With every new injustice, he complained to me about the establishment. He would attend every scheduled public march and demonstration. He was no stranger to graffiti and vandalism. He would ask questions about minor crimes and sentences involving juveniles. All I could do was explain to him the potential consequences of his actions. In the end, I knew there was no stopping him.
His name was Meia Noite, and his sights were set on the future. I followed him from the beginning of his high school life, and taught him extensive English theory. We spent long hours discussing nuances about the language. He helped me look at English at a new light. Silent letters, slang, homophones; he was a voracious student. I watched him apply to his favourite school, a top-rated academy in his area, and helped him study for his final exams.
His name was Pingers, and we had drifted apart. “Are you up?”, he had messaged me, “I’ve been accepted.” I congratulated him and we discussed the future. It had been a while since his previous message. He said he was sorry for not contacting me. He was anxious about bringing it up and making it awkward. I reassured him that it was fine, he could send me a message any time.
His name was Zeho, and perhaps he was too impulsive. I woke up to a string of fourteen messages. He was the only one who would send me that many in a row. Slowly, I strung together his ever-fragmented thoughts. He wasn’t happy with the government. He knew some people that were going to do something about it. He was going to help. He had a plan. I scrambled to write a message to dissuade him from doing anything rash. He told me he would be fine.
His name was Rafael, and I never heard from him again.
