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They pushed him in the mud. Very morning they would do it and if there was no mud, they would push him onto the ground anyway. Every morning he would lie there absorbing the frenzied and vicious kicks that came at him. He would get intolerable bruises and mud on his blazer, which was always hard to explain to his mother. They would eventually stop kicking him when they got bored or the bell rang, and he would always lie there for a few minutes afterwards, recuperating the best he could. He didn’t know why they picked on him. Maybe it was because he wore glasses, or maybe he was just different, like a mother may pick on her infant duck for some difference in it only she can see. It didn’t matter to him. At first he resented it, but after so much he just took it, he never tried to run, he would just stand there and take the pain and abuse and yellow phlegm they spat at him. Later he decided this was his life, so he should get used to it.
No one ever tried to intervene. The girls would just watch with a curious detachment. Some would laugh, some would jeer. The boys - those who weren’t joining in - would stand respectfully back, waiting for a kicking or punching position to become free so they could move in. The teachers turned a blind eye. And so his life went continued.
On his first day back at fifth form, the teachers had arranged a school bus trip to someplace or other, he had missed the name because he was being pummelled at the time. It didn’t matter to him though, it was somewhere different. He though gently to himself that he may be able to make new friends, but suddenly a voice in his head told him to forget it, he was a useless sack of shitt and no one would want to be friends with him. So, he settled his mind to other things and took the abuse that was hurled at him, in the form of words and objects.
The bus was crossing a small bridge when the Sixth Form Prefect came over to him. He could sense the Prefect was there, but was too afraid to turn around. He also knew something was going to happen, he could hear the suppressed titters and sniggers coming from behind. He prayed it would be quick. His prayer went unanswered. The Prefect got his head in both hands and began to brutally slam it against the window, again, and again, and again. He could hear the thud as his own head slammed against the bus window, and see the blood that started to come out of his nose. He could also feel something warm coming out of his ears, and guessed their was blood there too. He didn’t bother resisting, it would only be worse. He took a quick look at the front of the bus, and saw the driver watching him in the wing mirror with an expression of sympathy and helplessness, before it became overwhelmed with panic as the bus gave a sharp jolt. The Prefect let go and screamed, before the bus rolled over, and of the road into a gorge at the side. The windows smashed and people were thrown around like leaves in a storm. Several fell out of the windows or were draped across the sills before the bus rolled over again, crushing them like snail shells. At last, the bus came a lurching halt on its side. No one moved.
Except the boy with his head smashed through the window screen. He felt the blood coming out of his ears faster now, and more of it. He tried to get up, and stumbled with light-headedness. He could smell the fuel, and guess it was leaking out of the tanks. The electrical gizmos at the front were sparking, and he knew it was only a matter of time before the bus ignited. He looked around at all the dead or unconscious pupils lying around, before he heaved the Prefect beside him up onto his shoulder and climbed out the windows, stumbling over rocks and unconscious forms that lay strewn around. When he judged he had got a safe distance, he went back for the rest of the pupils that weren’t seriously injured. After he had got as many as he could, he dragged the teacher out.
The driver was dead and so were many of the other pupils still in the bus. Finally, as he tried to stumble out, he succumbed to the weariness and dizziness that had overcame him, and sank to the floor, barely conscious. Dimly he could see a small fire starting at the front, and in a few seconds feel its heat as it roared up the bus, aided by the petrol fuel. His pitiful life was over
***
“There was a horrific crash yesterday on the Crestfield road, yesterday” the newspaper ran. “It is believed that a bus carrying pupils from Grassmeadows High crashed off the road and rolled down a gully. Although a quarter of the pupils died along with the driver, thankfully 11 managed to crawl away, a safe distance from the bus, which soon became a burning inferno. It is believed that the crash, according to surviving pupils, was caused by a Fifth Form boy distracting the driver by thumping the windscreen. Our sympathy goes out to the bereaved families”.
No one ever tried to intervene. The girls would just watch with a curious detachment. Some would laugh, some would jeer. The boys - those who weren’t joining in - would stand respectfully back, waiting for a kicking or punching position to become free so they could move in. The teachers turned a blind eye. And so his life went continued.
On his first day back at fifth form, the teachers had arranged a school bus trip to someplace or other, he had missed the name because he was being pummelled at the time. It didn’t matter to him though, it was somewhere different. He though gently to himself that he may be able to make new friends, but suddenly a voice in his head told him to forget it, he was a useless sack of shitt and no one would want to be friends with him. So, he settled his mind to other things and took the abuse that was hurled at him, in the form of words and objects.
The bus was crossing a small bridge when the Sixth Form Prefect came over to him. He could sense the Prefect was there, but was too afraid to turn around. He also knew something was going to happen, he could hear the suppressed titters and sniggers coming from behind. He prayed it would be quick. His prayer went unanswered. The Prefect got his head in both hands and began to brutally slam it against the window, again, and again, and again. He could hear the thud as his own head slammed against the bus window, and see the blood that started to come out of his nose. He could also feel something warm coming out of his ears, and guessed their was blood there too. He didn’t bother resisting, it would only be worse. He took a quick look at the front of the bus, and saw the driver watching him in the wing mirror with an expression of sympathy and helplessness, before it became overwhelmed with panic as the bus gave a sharp jolt. The Prefect let go and screamed, before the bus rolled over, and of the road into a gorge at the side. The windows smashed and people were thrown around like leaves in a storm. Several fell out of the windows or were draped across the sills before the bus rolled over again, crushing them like snail shells. At last, the bus came a lurching halt on its side. No one moved.
Except the boy with his head smashed through the window screen. He felt the blood coming out of his ears faster now, and more of it. He tried to get up, and stumbled with light-headedness. He could smell the fuel, and guess it was leaking out of the tanks. The electrical gizmos at the front were sparking, and he knew it was only a matter of time before the bus ignited. He looked around at all the dead or unconscious pupils lying around, before he heaved the Prefect beside him up onto his shoulder and climbed out the windows, stumbling over rocks and unconscious forms that lay strewn around. When he judged he had got a safe distance, he went back for the rest of the pupils that weren’t seriously injured. After he had got as many as he could, he dragged the teacher out.
The driver was dead and so were many of the other pupils still in the bus. Finally, as he tried to stumble out, he succumbed to the weariness and dizziness that had overcame him, and sank to the floor, barely conscious. Dimly he could see a small fire starting at the front, and in a few seconds feel its heat as it roared up the bus, aided by the petrol fuel. His pitiful life was over
***
“There was a horrific crash yesterday on the Crestfield road, yesterday” the newspaper ran. “It is believed that a bus carrying pupils from Grassmeadows High crashed off the road and rolled down a gully. Although a quarter of the pupils died along with the driver, thankfully 11 managed to crawl away, a safe distance from the bus, which soon became a burning inferno. It is believed that the crash, according to surviving pupils, was caused by a Fifth Form boy distracting the driver by thumping the windscreen. Our sympathy goes out to the bereaved families”.
f**king brilliant!
They pushed him in the mud. Very morning they would do it and if there was no mud, they would push him onto the ground anyway. Every morning he would lie there absorbing the frenzied and vicious kicks that came at him. He would get intolerable bruises and mud on his blazer, which was always hard to explain to his mother. They would eventually stop kicking him when they got bored or the bell rang, and he would always lie there for a few minutes afterwards, recuperating the best he could. He didn’t know why they picked on him. Maybe it was because he wore glasses, or maybe he was just different, like a mother may pick on her infant duck for some difference in it only she can see. It didn’t matter to him. At first he resented it, but after so much he just took it, he never tried to run, he would just stand there and take the pain and abuse and yellow phlegm they spat at him. Later he decided this was his life, so he should get used to it.
No one ever tried to intervene. The girls would just watch with a curious detachment. Some would laugh, some would jeer. The boys - those who weren’t joining in - would stand respectfully back, waiting for a kicking or punching position to become free so they could move in. The teachers turned a blind eye. And so his life went continued.
On his first day back at fifth form, the teachers had arranged a school bus trip to someplace or other, he had missed the name because he was being pummelled at the time. It didn’t matter to him though, it was somewhere different. He though gently to himself that he may be able to make new friends, but suddenly a voice in his head told him to forget it, he was a useless sack of shitt and no one would want to be friends with him. So, he settled his mind to other things and took the abuse that was hurled at him, in the form of words and objects.
The bus was crossing a small bridge when the Sixth Form Prefect came over to him. He could sense the Prefect was there, but was too afraid to turn around. He also knew something was going to happen, he could hear the suppressed titters and sniggers coming from behind. He prayed it would be quick. His prayer went unanswered. The Prefect got his head in both hands and began to brutally slam it against the window, again, and again, and again. He could hear the thud as his own head slammed against the bus window, and see the blood that started to come out of his nose. He could also feel something warm coming out of his ears, and guessed their was blood there too. He didn’t bother resisting, it would only be worse. He took a quick look at the front of the bus, and saw the driver watching him in the wing mirror with an expression of sympathy and helplessness, before it became overwhelmed with panic as the bus gave a sharp jolt. The Prefect let go and screamed, before the bus rolled over, and of the road into a gorge at the side. The windows smashed and people were thrown around like leaves in a storm. Several fell out of the windows or were draped across the sills before the bus rolled over again, crushing them like snail shells. At last, the bus came a lurching halt on its side. No one moved.
Except the boy with his head smashed through the window screen. He felt the blood coming out of his ears faster now, and more of it. He tried to get up, and stumbled with light-headedness. He could smell the fuel, and guess it was leaking out of the tanks. The electrical gizmos at the front were sparking, and he knew it was only a matter of time before the bus ignited. He looked around at all the dead or unconscious pupils lying around, before he heaved the Prefect beside him up onto his shoulder and climbed out the windows, stumbling over rocks and unconscious forms that lay strewn around. When he judged he had got a safe distance, he went back for the rest of the pupils that weren’t seriously injured. After he had got as many as he could, he dragged the teacher out.
The driver was dead and so were many of the other pupils still in the bus. Finally, as he tried to stumble out, he succumbed to the weariness and dizziness that had overcame him, and sank to the floor, barely conscious. Dimly he could see a small fire starting at the front, and in a few seconds feel its heat as it roared up the bus, aided by the petrol fuel. His pitiful life was over
***
“There was a horrific crash yesterday on the Crestfield road, yesterday” the newspaper ran. “It is believed that a bus carrying pupils from Grassmeadows High crashed off the road and rolled down a gully. Although a quarter of the pupils died along with the driver, thankfully 11 managed to crawl away, a safe distance from the bus, which soon became a burning inferno. It is believed that the crash, according to surviving pupils, was caused by a Fifth Form boy distracting the driver by thumping the windscreen. Our sympathy goes out to the bereaved families”.
No one ever tried to intervene. The girls would just watch with a curious detachment. Some would laugh, some would jeer. The boys - those who weren’t joining in - would stand respectfully back, waiting for a kicking or punching position to become free so they could move in. The teachers turned a blind eye. And so his life went continued.
On his first day back at fifth form, the teachers had arranged a school bus trip to someplace or other, he had missed the name because he was being pummelled at the time. It didn’t matter to him though, it was somewhere different. He though gently to himself that he may be able to make new friends, but suddenly a voice in his head told him to forget it, he was a useless sack of shitt and no one would want to be friends with him. So, he settled his mind to other things and took the abuse that was hurled at him, in the form of words and objects.
The bus was crossing a small bridge when the Sixth Form Prefect came over to him. He could sense the Prefect was there, but was too afraid to turn around. He also knew something was going to happen, he could hear the suppressed titters and sniggers coming from behind. He prayed it would be quick. His prayer went unanswered. The Prefect got his head in both hands and began to brutally slam it against the window, again, and again, and again. He could hear the thud as his own head slammed against the bus window, and see the blood that started to come out of his nose. He could also feel something warm coming out of his ears, and guessed their was blood there too. He didn’t bother resisting, it would only be worse. He took a quick look at the front of the bus, and saw the driver watching him in the wing mirror with an expression of sympathy and helplessness, before it became overwhelmed with panic as the bus gave a sharp jolt. The Prefect let go and screamed, before the bus rolled over, and of the road into a gorge at the side. The windows smashed and people were thrown around like leaves in a storm. Several fell out of the windows or were draped across the sills before the bus rolled over again, crushing them like snail shells. At last, the bus came a lurching halt on its side. No one moved.
Except the boy with his head smashed through the window screen. He felt the blood coming out of his ears faster now, and more of it. He tried to get up, and stumbled with light-headedness. He could smell the fuel, and guess it was leaking out of the tanks. The electrical gizmos at the front were sparking, and he knew it was only a matter of time before the bus ignited. He looked around at all the dead or unconscious pupils lying around, before he heaved the Prefect beside him up onto his shoulder and climbed out the windows, stumbling over rocks and unconscious forms that lay strewn around. When he judged he had got a safe distance, he went back for the rest of the pupils that weren’t seriously injured. After he had got as many as he could, he dragged the teacher out.
The driver was dead and so were many of the other pupils still in the bus. Finally, as he tried to stumble out, he succumbed to the weariness and dizziness that had overcame him, and sank to the floor, barely conscious. Dimly he could see a small fire starting at the front, and in a few seconds feel its heat as it roared up the bus, aided by the petrol fuel. His pitiful life was over
***
“There was a horrific crash yesterday on the Crestfield road, yesterday” the newspaper ran. “It is believed that a bus carrying pupils from Grassmeadows High crashed off the road and rolled down a gully. Although a quarter of the pupils died along with the driver, thankfully 11 managed to crawl away, a safe distance from the bus, which soon became a burning inferno. It is believed that the crash, according to surviving pupils, was caused by a Fifth Form boy distracting the driver by thumping the windscreen. Our sympathy goes out to the bereaved families”.