A Vivid Memory

I went to public school when I was in sixth grade. Clay Junior High was not entirely horrible. Yes, there were a few druggies and a couple of weirdoes, like that boy who purposefully cut himself and then proceeded to bleed on my notebook, but, for the most part, Clay was fine. I especially liked my science teacher, Mr. Butcher. He had a moustache that resided under his nose, and it was there that, nestled in his finely groomed hair, a family of very happy boogers made their home. He was very no-nonsense; once he stopped mid-sentence and stared at me. Everybody in the entire classroom turned around to gawk at me. My crime? I had dared to unzip my pencil case to retrieve a pen while he was speaking. But I liked him because he would go off topic and talk about fascinating things. It was in his class that I learned how a refrigerator works and how oxygen came to exist. I also respected, and still respect, Mr. Butcher, especially after one of his students tried to commit suicide during his class, and Mr. Butcher stopped him.
Brandon was a troubled kid. He was in the special education program at Clay for his autism. He would chortle to himself during class and draw funny little animals in the bylines of his papers. His strange behavior and high voice made him a target for bullies. It was alarming to sit near him in class because he would suddenly start crying and silently weep for several minutes.
One day in the fall of my sixth grade year, I was sitting across from Brandon and listening to Mr. Butcher talk about the composition of soil. Brandon was fiddling with his pencil and muttering to himself. Without notice, Brandon looked up at Mr. Butcher and announced that this particular school day had been the worst day of his entire life. Sighing, Mr. Butcher said something like, “Now, Brandon, it can’t be the worst day of your entire life. You haven’t lived your entire life yet. You don’t have much to compare this day to.”
Brandon straightened up higher in his chair and exclaimed, tears wobbling in his voice, “It is! It is the worst day of my entire life! This is the last day of my life because I’m going to kill myself!”
And with that, Brandon seized his yellow pencil and began violently racking it against his wrist. My jaw dropped. Mr. Butcher flew to Brandon and wrestled the pencil out of his grasp.
“Brandon, don’t do this,” Mr. Butcher grunted as he entangled the last of Brandon’s fingers from the pencil. The pencil out of his hand, Brandon slumped onto his desk, and Mr. Butcher dashed over to his desk phone and swiftly dialed the front desk. Brandon had not broken his skin, but his threat was obviously one that should be treated with caution. All of us sat in silence and stared at Brandon as he breathed heavily. Two or three minutes later, two women from the special education program arrived at our classroom. They kneeled around Brandon and whispered encouraging words into his ears. He eventually stood up, his head hanging, and followed them from the room.
Mr. Butcher watched the trio leave the room silently. Then, looking at us, the bewildered students, he uncharacteristically dismissed us before the ending bell had rung. I left in sadness for the boy who wanted to die, and I left in awe of the man who had saved him.