Nobody Moved
- Nico Sansegraw
- 3 days ago
- 5 min read
Chapter Four:
After I graduated high school, I moved to Columbia, Missouri for college. I thought I was going to figure it out there. Whatever it was. I lasted three months, then dropped out with no plan. Not even a fake one.
I moved to Farmington to live with my mom and stepdad, Rich. He was from there, only 30 minutes away from my hometown. They’d bought a little three-bedroom house with a small backyard and a couple of plastic chairs that had faded in the sun. It was quiet. Too quiet. But it was safe.
Rich would say, “This is your house too, Nico,” and he meant it. My mom had just about hit her limit with me by that point. She didn’t yell or scream. She just got tired. One night she said, “You’re gonna take some classes at the community college and get a job.” No room for debate.
So I did.
I landed a job at a place downtown called 12 West. First place I applied. First interview. Got hired on the spot. I came home soaked from the rain, boots squeaking, and told my mom the news.
“Well good,” she said. “You need to be doing something.”
Still unimpressed.
I texted my friend Kim. Told her we were celebrating that night. She replied with a party invite before I could even ask.
The party was packed. Loud. The kind of chaotic small-town energy where you can’t tell if you’re about to have the best night of your life or the worst. Camo hats. Busch Light. Country music bouncing off the drywall. Guys chest-bumping after every beer pong win. It was all so aggressively straight it almost felt like satire.
I hovered for a while, sipping a vodka Red Bull out of a Styrofoam cup from the gas station. My go-to at the time. Kim played beer pong, working her charm to get us a spot. I liked the game. Something about the structure helped me relax. I started to buzz, loosen up, feel halfway normal.
We bounced around the house for a bit until Kim looked at me with that look and said, “There’s a garage too. Packed full of people.”
Of course there was.
The garage was massive. Like lifted-truck-showroom massive. Two actual trucks were parked inside. Fold-out tables everywhere. Kim and I posted up in the corner with fresh beers and sloppy, buzzed conversation.
“Landed a job today. Signed up for classes too,” I told her, feeling halfway proud.
She lit up. “Oh hell yeah!”
We both agreed we were drunk but needed more drinks anyway. I offered to grab more vodka and Red Bull from the car. There was a fridge in the garage that looked like it belonged in a luxury condo.
I didn’t make it far. A leg shot out from under a nearby table and caught my foot. I went down hard. Flat on the concrete.
I got up quick, ready to brush it off. But I looked up. It was a guy I’d seen earlier. Tan skin. Gray eyes. Gym body. Big. Too big. He and his friends were laughing.
“Why did you trip me?” I asked.
He stood. Calm, slow. Looked me right in the eye.
“Because you’re a faggot.”
Then he shoved me. Hard.
I hit the floor again. Got up, dazed. Before I could even process what was happening, he punched me. Right in the eye. I dropped again.
“I’m only 17!” I yelled. “I’m only 17!” I wasn’t. I turned 18 in September. But I hoped saying I was a minor would make him stop. It didn’t.
Kim came flying through the door and launched herself at him. She was hitting, screaming, clawing. He still had me by the shirt. Every time she landed a hit, he landed one on me.
“KIM, STOP. PLEASE STOP,” I begged. No one else helped. Not one person moved. They just watched.
At some point I blacked out. Or gave up. I don’t know. I was kind of ready to be done. Nothing in my life was working. If that was it, fine.
Finally, he stopped. Kim pulled me to my feet and got me to the car. My face was swelling fast. My lip was bleeding. I could feel my eye tightening.
Then he came storming out again. Banging on the window. Slamming his hands against the glass like a horror movie.
I hit reverse. Felt the car bump.
His body.
Then drive. Gone.
Kim and I laughed. Because it was insane. Because it didn’t feel real. Because we survived. Because what else do you do?
I dropped her off. She asked if I was okay. I lied and said yes. We hugged and I told her to text me when she got home. Then I pulled down the mirror to look at myself.
My eye was going to be black. Lip busted. Blood on my shirt. But something else was off. I stared at my face and didn’t recognize it. Closed the mirror.
I drove home in silence.
The shower burned. Then it soothed. I stood there until my skin pruned. Then I went to wake my mom. Like a kid with a nightmare.
I sat beside her in the dark.
“Mom.”
Her eyes opened fast.
“I was beat up. For being gay.”
We stepped out into the hallway. Her face dropped when she saw mine.
“We need to go to the cops,” she said.
“I’m okay,” I said. “I just want to go to bed.”
We sat in silence. Then hugged. There was nothing to say. I didn’t know who he was.
But small towns don’t keep secrets for long.
I crawled in bed, went to sleep, no dreams—just dark.
If you or someone you know is experiencing abuse or discrimination, support is available.
In the U.S., you can reach out to the Trevor Project for LGBTQ+ support at 1-866-488-7386 or chat online at thetrevorproject.org.
For anti-bullying resources, visit StopBullying.gov.
If you’re in immediate danger or need urgent help, please call 911 or your local emergency number.
You are not alone, and there are people who care and want to help.
The Hay Bales to Halsted series consists of stories and experiences from the perspective of Nico Sansegraw. These narratives are solely his own and do not reflect the views or opinions of GRAB Magazine. This series is intended as a work of storytelling and in no way seeks to glorify, endorse, or promote any specific subject matter. It is simply a story—nothing more, nothing less.
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