The Skeptic Tank

Then I saw one kick my dad's stone. I was speechless for a second, but then stopped and shouted, "Hey, stop that!" or something of that nature.
One of the boys seemed to twitch, like he was going to bolt, but the one kicking my dad's stone just laughed and kicked it a second time - harder than necessary to make his point. Then the third boy threw one of the bottles against the stone, smashing the bottle.

This made me very angry and I looked down to see if there was something to throw at them. There was an old crumbling tomb to my right and I walked over and picked up a tennis-ball sized lump of stone and threw it at the boys.

I had never been a top athlete, but I could throw and catch as well as any average guy. I could see them all look up when I grunted as I threw it, but they must have lost sight of the stone against the darkening skies.

I think we were all surprised when the rock I had thrown hit one of the kids square in the center of his face. Of course I was aiming for his head, but I never thought I could actually hit him.

I just stood and felt like I must have seemed like a near-god to them, silhouetted against the dusk, unarmed yet smiting them from afar.

The twitchy boy paused a second or two and then ran off. The kicking boy knelt to examine his friend but glanced up at me.

I was scared to death of what I had just done and couldn't speak for a few seconds. Finally I collected myself and started walking toward them. I tried to speak, but my throat was so dry all that came out was a rough growl. When I was close enough to see his face, the kid stared at me, waiting for me to take another step. I took another step and he ran.

The night was very quiet other than my pulse surging in my ears and I listened to his footsteps and I could hear that he stopped abot 100 feet away. I heard a voice shout-whisper what sounded like "Andy!". The two boys must have foud each other.
The bushes on the side of the cemetery rustled, as though they were taking a shortcut to the street.

I got to my dad's stone and knelt to look at the kid with the smashed face. He wasn't dead, which I had feared. His breathing was heavy, but unobstructed.
I picked up the broken glass near my dad's grave and tossed it on the ground where the kid lay. Part of me hoped he would wake up and roll over on it.

In my head I apologized to my father as I returned to my car. Once I was a few blocks away I called the police to say there were a bunch of drunken teenagers defacing gravestones.
If they found the kid, then it was his lucky day. If not, I didn't feel responsible.

I don't visit my dad anymore.