1917

May 15, 1918

Never in my life did I expect to face an assault with a knife, but that unfortunate day proved otherwise. It began with Isaac Milton running his mouth, spewing vile and unfounded statements about Peggy. His words cut deeper than any blade ever could. Peggy wasn’t just a girl to me—she was my future, the one I planned to marry once I turned eighteen. We had dreams, big ones. A cozy home with a spacious backyard, a life filled with laughter and love. And there he was, tearing her down with baseless cruelty.

“I’m not going to let you talk about her like that,” I said, my voice firm but shaking slightly.

  Isaac sneered, his switchblade glinting in the sunlight as he flipped it open. “What are you going to do about it, lover boy?”

  My heart raced as I stared him down. I wanted to run, to scream for help, but the thought of Peggy and the dreams we shared kept me rooted. “She’s better than you’ll ever be,” I snapped, fists balling up at my sides.

  That was all it took. His face twisted into a mask of anger, and before I knew it, he lunged at me, the blade flashing dangerously close. I barely had time to react, dodging to the side as the knife nicked the fabric of my shirt. My chest heaved with fear and adrenaline. This wasn’t just a scuffle—it was a fight for something much bigger.

“Don’t you dare touch me,” I spat, grabbing a nearby branch off the ground. It wasn’t much, but it felt like my only defense.

“You think you can protect her?” Isaac sneered, circling me like a predator.

  I held my ground, clutching the branch tightly. “I don’t just think it—I know it,” I said, determination hardening my voice.

  What happened next was a blur of frantic movements and raw survival instinct. Isaac came at me again, but this time, I swung the branch with everything I had. It connected with his hand, and the knife went flying, clattering to the ground. For a moment, there was silence, the tension thick in the air.

  Isaac glared at me, cradling his hand, but he didn’t make another move. Instead, he spat on the ground and muttered something under his breath before storming off.

  As I stood there, shaking, I realized just how far I would go to protect Peggy, to protect our future. Isaac might have been trouble, but he wasn’t going to tear us apart. Not then, not ever.

  Isaac sneered, gripping his knife tightly as he stepped closer, his arrogance practically oozing from him. “Loss doesn’t make you strong, Jeremy,” he spat. “It makes you weak. Pathetic. And right now, I see nothing but weakness in front of me.”

  Every nerve in my body screamed to back down, but my pride and the memory of my father and brother wouldn’t let me. I wouldn’t give this lunatic the satisfaction of seeing me break.

“I don’t need strength to face you,” I replied evenly. “And I certainly don’t need your warped idea of God. You think waving that knife around makes you powerful? It just makes you a coward.”

  Isaac’s face darkened. “Coward?” he growled, voice low and venomous. “You’ll regret that.”

  He lunged at me, and I barely sidestepped, breath catching in my throat. His knife glinted under the sun—a brutal reminder of how close I was to danger. “You think your precious God is going to save you?” he jeered. “Let’s see Him step in now!”

“You don’t scare me, Isaac,” I said, voice steadier than I felt. “Not with your knife, not with your blasphemy, not with your empty threats. If anything, you just pity me for having to live your life this way.”

  His laugh was sharp, jagged against glass. “Pity me?” he repeated mockingly. “I’m not the one crying to a God who doesn’t answer.”

  I clenched my fists, anger bubbling beneath the surface, but refused to give in. “No, Isaac,” I said calmly. “You’re the one who doesn’t know where to turn. You think carving your name into every tree, terrorizing people, and pretending to be a god makes you powerful. But it only shows how lost you really are.”

  For a moment, he faltered, grip on the knife loosening slightly. I seized the opportunity. “And if you think that knife will fix whatever’s broken inside you, you’re wrong. All you’re doing is making it worse—for yourself and everyone around you.”

  Isaac stared at me, eyes narrowing as if trying to process my words. Then, without another word, he growled, turned on his heel, and stormed off, knife clenched tightly.

  I stood there, trembling, adrenaline coursing through me. I didn’t know if I’d won or if this was just the beginning. But for now, Isaac was gone—and I was still standing. And that, I decided, was enough.

  Isaac’s sudden vulnerability caught me off guard. His cocky bravado had melted, leaving behind a wounded boy craving understanding. For the first time, I saw him not as a threat but as someone lost, someone who needed connection as much as I did.

“Friends, huh?” he muttered, almost to himself, testing the word. His grip lingered on my hand longer than necessary, unsure what friendship even meant.

  I nodded firmly. “Yeah, friends. No knives, no threats, just two people figuring out how to get through this crazy thing called life.”

  Isaac gave a half-smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes but hinted at the possibility of something better.   “You’re an odd one, Jeremy. Most people would’ve run a mile by now.”

  I shrugged, attempting a light chuckle. “Guess I’m not most people.”

  For a moment, we stood there, the tension dissipating like fog under the sun. The weight of his struggles still hung in the air, but there was a flicker of something else—hope, maybe.

“You know, I’ve never had a real friend before,” he admitted quietly, almost embarrassed. “Don’t screw it up.”

  I smirked. “I’ll do my best. But just so you know, if you ever come at me with that knife again, this friendship’s over.”

  Isaac let out a genuine laugh—the first I’d ever heard from him. “Fair enough,” he said, slipping the knife into his pocket. “Guess I’ve got some bad habits to break.”

  We began walking side by side, hostility replaced by an awkward but genuine camaraderie. Even the most unreachable people often just need someone willing to try.

  That night, as I knelt beside my bed, hands clasped and head bowed, my thoughts drifted to someone unexpected—Isaac. Of all the people I could think to pray for, he was the last one who’d crossed my mind before today.

“God,” I began softly, “I know Isaac isn’t perfect—far from it—but he’s struggling, and he needs help. I think he’s got a good heart buried under all that anger and pain. If you’re listening, please watch over him. Help him find his way.”

  The words surprised even me, coming out with more compassion than I thought possible. I didn’t know if it would make a difference, but praying for Isaac felt right—a small step toward understanding him and the struggles he faced.

  I sighed deeply, feeling a mixture of peace and uncertainty as I crawled into bed. The night seemed quieter, the world softer, as I stared at the ceiling. Life certainly had its way of taking unexpected turns. Maybe, just maybe, this was one of those turns that could lead somewhere good.