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The boy stood outside his house.
He didn’t want to go in, he had seen the car and knew his father was home. It was always bad to go in when he would be alone with his father.
Maybe it would be safe, maybe he would be passed out on the sofa, drunk at 4pm and red-faced as he slumped.
Maybe.
But he knew the odds on that so he went walking. He walked a lot, especially after school. Nowhere in particular, just anywhere it was quiet and he could sit and think.
He thought a lot about things, and thought more than a 13yr old should do about serious things.
Today had been bad at school, worse than usual.
He was fat, and a lot of people think that being fat means you're stupid. Just as they assume being pretty means a girl is stupid, but we know how wrong that is don't we?
He could tell you all about things you wouldn't expect from a kid - the workings of the solar system, supernovas and the essence of the universe.
He had been measured once and his intelligence was off the scale.
For his age, he could be more interesting and amusing that those 3 times his age.
Of course, in this world that doesn't count for a thing when it's 6am and you're laying there with liquid fire in your gut because you know you have to go to school in 3hrs where it will all start again.
At 13 he understood people a lot more than someone that age should do.
He knew about spite and hate. He knew about fear and self-loathing. He knew that unless you were part of "the crowd" then you were singled out and taken to the extreme.
He couldn't tell anyone about this, nobody cared. His father? The only time he heard anything from his father were threats and the reasons why he was so useless at everything.
His mother? She was quiet and worked all the hours she could, just to keep out of the way.
He didn't blame her, as soon as he could, he would get out too. But for now he was trapped.
Teachers? They thought he was stupid and always made him the butt of jokes in class.
Someone got an answer wrong? They were ovbiously being affected by the fat kid.
He didn't bother to show them that he knew more than anyone else. What was the point?
Today, just after register, the biggest kid in the class told him, in no uncertain terms, that he was going to "kick his a**e" after school in the car-park.
Everyone heard and the news spread through the school like a fire in a bone-dry forest.
Usually they just slammed his books out of his hands, or threw his bag onto a roof.
One time, after games, they hid his towel and had great fun at him standing there naked.
They laughed and made jokes but he just ignored them, he went away somewhere else for a while until they grew bored and left him.
Lunchtime now.
He stayed in his homeroom and stared out of the window. Some kids walked past and pointed at him "That's the one yeah, after school".
He didn't know what to do.
Run? If he did that then they would eat him whole and make the remaining years worse than they were.
He laughed, worse?
How could it be worse?
Tell his dad? The last time he tried to talk to his dad, he ended up being held against the stove hotplate until his ear stuck.
Dad was worried for a bit, took him to casualty and made up some story about him falling.
The nurses didn't believe him and 3 days later someone came to the house.
They took him outside and asked him all sorts of questions about his father.
"Did he drink?" "Did he ever hit/touch you?".
He didn't say anything to them, it would only make things worse.
They left and for a couple of weeks, things were ok at home.
Nobody's idea of Little House on The Prairie, but at least he went a whole week without cowering in a corner trying to protect his head.
He liked video games.
They allowed him to be someone else for a while.
He fought battles and conquered worlds, killed terrorists and made lives for his Sims. Those were good times.
He wrote a lot too, stupid words he crossed out because they embarassed him to read back later on.
They were just words, attempts to vocalise something inside of him.
He knew, if given a chance, that he could be a good friend to someone.
They would laugh and talk, swap games and go places.
He knew other people did these things, but it seemed to elude him.
Women? Forget it pal, not a part of his world.
He saw them when he sat and thought. They walked past arm in arm and laughed about things.
Would that ever be him? Could someone ever not think he was stupid and clumsy? Would they ever not laugh because he couldn't play football?
He had a lot to give, but it just seemed so hard to make contact.
So he went inside himself a lot, lived lives of smiles and laughing and people that called round for him.
But he always came out to face how things were.
He never cried though, he was bigger than that. He used to, but that weak and for girls and his dad made sure he didn't cry anymore.
That's not what men did. Cissy's cried, men just got on with life.
It is now almost 3pm and he knows what is coming up.
If he faces this kid in a fight, he will get beaten. It's not that he couldn't fight, he just never tried to. He took the slaps and the footballs kicked at him and laughed with them, because that's how you were supposed to respond isn't it? Show them it doesn't affect you?
Maybe they would realise how dumb they were being and would stop?
Not yet.
He couldn't run away though, that made him worse than the stupd fat kid.
No, he knew what would happen then and however bad he felt now? It would be a million times worse.
No, he would face this kid and a teacher would get involved in a few seconds.
That's how fights went, not like the movies. Fast, ugly and always got stopped.
He'd take a few lumps but that was nothing new. If it wasn't them it was at home.
Bruises go, bones heal - big deal, be a man.
He pushed through the ring of kids.
They were wide-eyed and grinning, pointing at him.
Their faces were shiny and they looked like christmas had come.
He understood why, he understood a great deal more than most kids.
They weren't glad he was going to get kicked, they were glad it wasn't them.
Cowards, but drawing strength from each other.
And in the middle was the kid - the challenger.
The boy stood there and waited for the first punch to land. Maybe 10 seconds and it would get stopped. He could protect his head pretty good by now.
The big kid had a stupid, lazy smile as he stood there grinding his fists into his palms.
Something bubbled in the kid's brain - a vague notion of something.
The big kid advanced, grinning and nodding to the jeering crowd all eager to see someone else get pounded.
The world seemed to shift in the kid's eye.
Instead of the big kid, it was his dad screaming at him for leaving his magazine on the kitchen table.
The sounds around him faded, no more could he hear the screams and chants of the kids.
Silence.
His dad striking him for spilling tea on the side. His dad's stupid tea he made him make anyway.
Silence.
His father coming into his room at night, reeking of whiskey and hate.
Silence.
And now the big kid swam back into focus, almost upon him, walking with a lazy arrogance.
Something clicked in the kid's head and he attacked.
By the time the teacher managed to push through the crowd, he saw the fat kid sitting on the big kid's chest, driving his head into the unforgiving asphalt of the car-park.
The kids weren't screaming anymore, they looked scared.
One had slipped in the blood and left a kalaedoscope footprint away from the feral, chanting pack.
The teacher hauled the fat kid off eventually and by the time the ambulance came, the fat kid had become silent.
He didn't respond to voices or the light the paramedic shone in his eyes.
The teacher had always though the fat kid was strange and if this didn't prove it, well nothing did.
I mean, attacking another kid like that? Probably killing him?
On the way home the teacher shrugged to himself, kids these days lacked discipline. He wouldn't be surprised if the parent's were to blame.
Kids eh?
He didn’t want to go in, he had seen the car and knew his father was home. It was always bad to go in when he would be alone with his father.
Maybe it would be safe, maybe he would be passed out on the sofa, drunk at 4pm and red-faced as he slumped.
Maybe.
But he knew the odds on that so he went walking. He walked a lot, especially after school. Nowhere in particular, just anywhere it was quiet and he could sit and think.
He thought a lot about things, and thought more than a 13yr old should do about serious things.
Today had been bad at school, worse than usual.
He was fat, and a lot of people think that being fat means you're stupid. Just as they assume being pretty means a girl is stupid, but we know how wrong that is don't we?
He could tell you all about things you wouldn't expect from a kid - the workings of the solar system, supernovas and the essence of the universe.
He had been measured once and his intelligence was off the scale.
For his age, he could be more interesting and amusing that those 3 times his age.
Of course, in this world that doesn't count for a thing when it's 6am and you're laying there with liquid fire in your gut because you know you have to go to school in 3hrs where it will all start again.
At 13 he understood people a lot more than someone that age should do.
He knew about spite and hate. He knew about fear and self-loathing. He knew that unless you were part of "the crowd" then you were singled out and taken to the extreme.
He couldn't tell anyone about this, nobody cared. His father? The only time he heard anything from his father were threats and the reasons why he was so useless at everything.
His mother? She was quiet and worked all the hours she could, just to keep out of the way.
He didn't blame her, as soon as he could, he would get out too. But for now he was trapped.
Teachers? They thought he was stupid and always made him the butt of jokes in class.
Someone got an answer wrong? They were ovbiously being affected by the fat kid.
He didn't bother to show them that he knew more than anyone else. What was the point?
Today, just after register, the biggest kid in the class told him, in no uncertain terms, that he was going to "kick his a**e" after school in the car-park.
Everyone heard and the news spread through the school like a fire in a bone-dry forest.
Usually they just slammed his books out of his hands, or threw his bag onto a roof.
One time, after games, they hid his towel and had great fun at him standing there naked.
They laughed and made jokes but he just ignored them, he went away somewhere else for a while until they grew bored and left him.
Lunchtime now.
He stayed in his homeroom and stared out of the window. Some kids walked past and pointed at him "That's the one yeah, after school".
He didn't know what to do.
Run? If he did that then they would eat him whole and make the remaining years worse than they were.
He laughed, worse?
How could it be worse?
Tell his dad? The last time he tried to talk to his dad, he ended up being held against the stove hotplate until his ear stuck.
Dad was worried for a bit, took him to casualty and made up some story about him falling.
The nurses didn't believe him and 3 days later someone came to the house.
They took him outside and asked him all sorts of questions about his father.
"Did he drink?" "Did he ever hit/touch you?".
He didn't say anything to them, it would only make things worse.
They left and for a couple of weeks, things were ok at home.
Nobody's idea of Little House on The Prairie, but at least he went a whole week without cowering in a corner trying to protect his head.
He liked video games.
They allowed him to be someone else for a while.
He fought battles and conquered worlds, killed terrorists and made lives for his Sims. Those were good times.
He wrote a lot too, stupid words he crossed out because they embarassed him to read back later on.
They were just words, attempts to vocalise something inside of him.
He knew, if given a chance, that he could be a good friend to someone.
They would laugh and talk, swap games and go places.
He knew other people did these things, but it seemed to elude him.
Women? Forget it pal, not a part of his world.
He saw them when he sat and thought. They walked past arm in arm and laughed about things.
Would that ever be him? Could someone ever not think he was stupid and clumsy? Would they ever not laugh because he couldn't play football?
He had a lot to give, but it just seemed so hard to make contact.
So he went inside himself a lot, lived lives of smiles and laughing and people that called round for him.
But he always came out to face how things were.
He never cried though, he was bigger than that. He used to, but that weak and for girls and his dad made sure he didn't cry anymore.
That's not what men did. Cissy's cried, men just got on with life.
It is now almost 3pm and he knows what is coming up.
If he faces this kid in a fight, he will get beaten. It's not that he couldn't fight, he just never tried to. He took the slaps and the footballs kicked at him and laughed with them, because that's how you were supposed to respond isn't it? Show them it doesn't affect you?
Maybe they would realise how dumb they were being and would stop?
Not yet.
He couldn't run away though, that made him worse than the stupd fat kid.
No, he knew what would happen then and however bad he felt now? It would be a million times worse.
No, he would face this kid and a teacher would get involved in a few seconds.
That's how fights went, not like the movies. Fast, ugly and always got stopped.
He'd take a few lumps but that was nothing new. If it wasn't them it was at home.
Bruises go, bones heal - big deal, be a man.
He pushed through the ring of kids.
They were wide-eyed and grinning, pointing at him.
Their faces were shiny and they looked like christmas had come.
He understood why, he understood a great deal more than most kids.
They weren't glad he was going to get kicked, they were glad it wasn't them.
Cowards, but drawing strength from each other.
And in the middle was the kid - the challenger.
The boy stood there and waited for the first punch to land. Maybe 10 seconds and it would get stopped. He could protect his head pretty good by now.
The big kid had a stupid, lazy smile as he stood there grinding his fists into his palms.
Something bubbled in the kid's brain - a vague notion of something.
The big kid advanced, grinning and nodding to the jeering crowd all eager to see someone else get pounded.
The world seemed to shift in the kid's eye.
Instead of the big kid, it was his dad screaming at him for leaving his magazine on the kitchen table.
The sounds around him faded, no more could he hear the screams and chants of the kids.
Silence.
His dad striking him for spilling tea on the side. His dad's stupid tea he made him make anyway.
Silence.
His father coming into his room at night, reeking of whiskey and hate.
Silence.
And now the big kid swam back into focus, almost upon him, walking with a lazy arrogance.
Something clicked in the kid's head and he attacked.
By the time the teacher managed to push through the crowd, he saw the fat kid sitting on the big kid's chest, driving his head into the unforgiving asphalt of the car-park.
The kids weren't screaming anymore, they looked scared.
One had slipped in the blood and left a kalaedoscope footprint away from the feral, chanting pack.
The teacher hauled the fat kid off eventually and by the time the ambulance came, the fat kid had become silent.
He didn't respond to voices or the light the paramedic shone in his eyes.
The teacher had always though the fat kid was strange and if this didn't prove it, well nothing did.
I mean, attacking another kid like that? Probably killing him?
On the way home the teacher shrugged to himself, kids these days lacked discipline. He wouldn't be surprised if the parent's were to blame.
Kids eh?
Page:
Argh, Pb. How can anyone write your emotions better than you can? It's not a "well, that wasn't phrased properly" situation... it's getting words out onto paper.
As for superheroes...
The world has superheroes. Sure, they don't have x-ray vision, they can't bend steel with their bare hands... no, all they do is reach out. Anyone who has the courage to face up to people who have seen the edge, pull them back, hold their hand and... not comfort them, not help them escape... but help them to face up to who they are. For every small kid crying in the corner, there could be another one walking towards him, helping him to his feet.
But we haven't got the "guts" to help someone else when they're down. Well, not many of us do. The only ones that bother to stop, talk to strangers, help them, love them. They're the superheroes, and I'm not in the least bit childish for believing that.
You can believe what you want Pb, but we're always here for you, and if you need to write, and if you need to talk, we'll be here ready to listen.
As for superheroes...
The world has superheroes. Sure, they don't have x-ray vision, they can't bend steel with their bare hands... no, all they do is reach out. Anyone who has the courage to face up to people who have seen the edge, pull them back, hold their hand and... not comfort them, not help them escape... but help them to face up to who they are. For every small kid crying in the corner, there could be another one walking towards him, helping him to his feet.
But we haven't got the "guts" to help someone else when they're down. Well, not many of us do. The only ones that bother to stop, talk to strangers, help them, love them. They're the superheroes, and I'm not in the least bit childish for believing that.
You can believe what you want Pb, but we're always here for you, and if you need to write, and if you need to talk, we'll be here ready to listen.
wow. Very good, and moving.
Like many others I know on this forum, I too had those types of experiences, I just don't talk about any of it because other people do it so much better, as I can see from this excellently written piece.
I just feel so helpless to be able to help people who are beaten down and oppressed by those who just don't realise what they are doing, or don't care. Sometimes I think it would be nice to be able to do something, like the superheroes you see on TV, but you can't think like that because everyone knows those kind of things aren't possible and to imagine they are is just childish. But then, what do you expect from someone who, at nearly 30, still believes in magic and creatures which others think are only fairy stories.
Thank you for that post.
Like many others I know on this forum, I too had those types of experiences, I just don't talk about any of it because other people do it so much better, as I can see from this excellently written piece.
I just feel so helpless to be able to help people who are beaten down and oppressed by those who just don't realise what they are doing, or don't care. Sometimes I think it would be nice to be able to do something, like the superheroes you see on TV, but you can't think like that because everyone knows those kind of things aren't possible and to imagine they are is just childish. But then, what do you expect from someone who, at nearly 30, still believes in magic and creatures which others think are only fairy stories.
Thank you for that post.
"
Sweeper Bros, go away, cheer up, come back, enjoy the forums instead of pointing out the words that don't match up.
®eDpAtH²°°2 wrote:
Good psot really enjoyed the ending good on the fat kid :-)
Moron.
------
Excellent.
Good psot really enjoyed the ending good on the fat kid :-)
Moron.
------
Excellent.
*shakes head*
Good psot really enjoyed the ending good on the fat kid :-)
The problem?
It's only the thinkers that this affects. People that will discover this for themselves, eventually. Anyone else, the ones that are happy living in their land of rules and dos and don'ts, they won't even batter an eyelid. Because they don't care.
We don't need escape. Escape only holds up what we gather up inside, until one day, it's released in one huge punch and nobody even stops to understand.
The story you wrote is simular to my own life, for the longest of times. I wasn't bullied so much... just ignored. I still am now, because people accept, they don't think.
I'm different now. I'm the calmest person I know. I've been saved not by escape, as I first thought... but by discovering what life really is. That's the real problem. We escape because we know no other way. If only we knew... if only we knew...
I've had a story that I've been trying to write for a long time, but just unable to, for flow reasons, more than anything. I may give it another go soon, but there's one passage that's stuck in my head that I want to write about now.
-------------
There he stood. Him and the two others... not like he said, not before, not ever. They needed him... they were their logos, their t-shirts, all that they owned was nothing, because they were him. His shoes. His school bag. They didn't even notice he was wearing gloves. They wouldn't even stop to think, perhaps, they had driven him that far.
The two boys jeered, they knew what was coming. Like always. But not this time.
As the boy moved towards him, smiling in the faint way as he always did... Strafex did what he needed to.
He pulled out the gun, and shot him.
The boy fell to the floor. The boy died.
All the plans in his head faded... no longer the urge to stamp his face into the concrete stood high in his mind... the boys eyes still open, staring into the distance that nobody even dared to look to. He tried to focus on his plan... but the boys, they just stood there.
No noise.
The two boys, his shoes, as if... a curse, a curse lifted from their souls, and they did little than turn and run. A small blink of respect for the dead, the lying dead that no longer mattered to anyone.
Strafex heard the gun clink as it landed on the floor, as it all slipped between his fingers.
He had to concentrate... he had to... he knew all about this, he knew how they caught you... he tried to open his pocket, shaking madly, and tore his gloves off... he threw them to the floor, but the world hitting him in the face as he watched them soak up blood from the floor, all around his feet, staining his soles.
He took out the plastic gloves in his jacket... no worries, he could burn them. He could burn everything.
He put on the plastic gloves, and bent down to the boy, lying dead. He turned him over, the boy stared at him.
Strafex looked down at his chest, shaking, concentrating mostly on remembering to breath.
The bullet lay in the boy's chest... just like he planned... but he couldn't... he couldn't rip out the bullet. The conversation came flooding back, the screams and threats of what he'd do, how he'd do it, why he wouldn't get caught.
The boy's blood oozed out as he tried to open the wound more, to reach in, to take out the bullet with his bare hands... but... the hatred, the anger, passed in the second before the bullet even entered him.
Strafex cried in shock and pain... a shock echoing up his body, forcing everything that had happened to that moment out, spasming... he brought his hands to his face, wiping blood all over his clothes and cheeks... tears mixing with the boys blood, falling into his mouth as he screamed but nothing came out.
Strafex lay on the floor, crippled, shaking uncontrollably, the blood soaking into his coat.
But nobody came.
He was all alone.
--------------
Excellent writing.
It's only the thinkers that this affects. People that will discover this for themselves, eventually. Anyone else, the ones that are happy living in their land of rules and dos and don'ts, they won't even batter an eyelid. Because they don't care.
We don't need escape. Escape only holds up what we gather up inside, until one day, it's released in one huge punch and nobody even stops to understand.
The story you wrote is simular to my own life, for the longest of times. I wasn't bullied so much... just ignored. I still am now, because people accept, they don't think.
I'm different now. I'm the calmest person I know. I've been saved not by escape, as I first thought... but by discovering what life really is. That's the real problem. We escape because we know no other way. If only we knew... if only we knew...
I've had a story that I've been trying to write for a long time, but just unable to, for flow reasons, more than anything. I may give it another go soon, but there's one passage that's stuck in my head that I want to write about now.
-------------
There he stood. Him and the two others... not like he said, not before, not ever. They needed him... they were their logos, their t-shirts, all that they owned was nothing, because they were him. His shoes. His school bag. They didn't even notice he was wearing gloves. They wouldn't even stop to think, perhaps, they had driven him that far.
The two boys jeered, they knew what was coming. Like always. But not this time.
As the boy moved towards him, smiling in the faint way as he always did... Strafex did what he needed to.
He pulled out the gun, and shot him.
The boy fell to the floor. The boy died.
All the plans in his head faded... no longer the urge to stamp his face into the concrete stood high in his mind... the boys eyes still open, staring into the distance that nobody even dared to look to. He tried to focus on his plan... but the boys, they just stood there.
No noise.
The two boys, his shoes, as if... a curse, a curse lifted from their souls, and they did little than turn and run. A small blink of respect for the dead, the lying dead that no longer mattered to anyone.
Strafex heard the gun clink as it landed on the floor, as it all slipped between his fingers.
He had to concentrate... he had to... he knew all about this, he knew how they caught you... he tried to open his pocket, shaking madly, and tore his gloves off... he threw them to the floor, but the world hitting him in the face as he watched them soak up blood from the floor, all around his feet, staining his soles.
He took out the plastic gloves in his jacket... no worries, he could burn them. He could burn everything.
He put on the plastic gloves, and bent down to the boy, lying dead. He turned him over, the boy stared at him.
Strafex looked down at his chest, shaking, concentrating mostly on remembering to breath.
The bullet lay in the boy's chest... just like he planned... but he couldn't... he couldn't rip out the bullet. The conversation came flooding back, the screams and threats of what he'd do, how he'd do it, why he wouldn't get caught.
The boy's blood oozed out as he tried to open the wound more, to reach in, to take out the bullet with his bare hands... but... the hatred, the anger, passed in the second before the bullet even entered him.
Strafex cried in shock and pain... a shock echoing up his body, forcing everything that had happened to that moment out, spasming... he brought his hands to his face, wiping blood all over his clothes and cheeks... tears mixing with the boys blood, falling into his mouth as he screamed but nothing came out.
Strafex lay on the floor, crippled, shaking uncontrollably, the blood soaking into his coat.
But nobody came.
He was all alone.
--------------
Excellent writing.
Page: