To start this off, I don't know if he died. He was badly injured and then he was never at school anymore. But I'll never forget this for as long as I live. I used to beat up this kid all the time when I was in second grade living in South America. I still don't know why I did it, but I didn't feel bad about it. He also kept trying to hang out and I'd use that against him to have another opportunity to beat him up. One day I went too far, I went off on this kid and smashed his face up and kicked him over and over again while he was on the ground and no one even came to stop me, it was at recess in the courtyard at school with everyone watching. When I was done I just walked away and went back to class just like that like nothing happened. I remember being so hot and sweaty and tired from kicking this kid's ass that when I went back to class, I asked the teacher if I could take off my uniform shirt and just have my undershirt in class for a little while. (It was a wool uniform.) I was just really casual and matter of fact about it like I'd just had a workout. And then I noticed the kid was never in school anymore. Like he just stopped coming. And then a few days later I was walking around in the courtyard again and the kid's dad snuck up behind me and kicked me so hard in the crotch from behind that I actually had to stealthily throw away my underwear because I was afraid of what my parents might do if they saw it. I was kicked so hard I went flying through the air and landed face first into the pavement. I only knew it was the dad because I caught a quick glimpse of him walking away. I didn't say or do anything but get up and go back inside the school because I knew damn well I deserved that. I continued my violent behavior and picked fights with boys until well into seventh grade and then it gradually went away. I still don't understand why I did any of it.