I have so many feelings about Charles Rowland.

His home life was shit. His dad taught him that nothing he could do would ever be enough. That he should expect people to hurt him. He went to a school where he would probably have been a minority on multiple fronts, and I would assume that the “friends” who tried to commit a racist hate crime in front of him never let him forget it. He was beaten so badly he had potentially fatal internal injuries and then driven into a frozen lake and had rocks thrown at him. His murder was covered up - can’t let those nice rich white boys face consequences after all. He never saw an ounce of justice.

He fought so hard for the joy in his life. He fell in love with music and bought tapes that he probably had to scrape for pennies to afford, and recovered posters from shows so that he could have something in his room that made him happy. He learned to let harsh words roll off him, to pick himself up and dust himself off and keep going. Everyone likes him eventually. He’s a good sort of chap. He had hopes for the future. He wanted to live, to grow up, to have a life with all it’s possibilities.

And then all of that was stolen from him, and he picked himself up, and dusted himself off, and kept going. He keeps smiling, because if he lets himself stop he’s afraid of what will come to the surface. He’s carrying around an ocean of grief, but he still has a purpose. He has his most important person, and work that gives his afterlife meaning, and most days that’s enough. He never got justice, so he fights for justice for other people. He never got to grow up, so he’ll keep other people safe if he can.

I just… this boy kills me. He loves so fucking hard, and he gives so fucking much, and he deserves the world.