locker doors and cycles

“Freak”

Slam.

He glared at them, rubbed his right arm.

“Dummy.”

Slam.

He punched the other kid. By that afternoon, he was nursing a swollen jaw, feeling the two holes in his mouth with his tongue where his teeth had been.

“Ghora. Fatass.”

Slam.

He kept his eyes down low. Demure. His spirit had finally been broken.

After that, they’d just do it out of habit. Broken down. A pawn for their amusement. They didn’t exactly know what they were doing. They were young. They might know what they were doing. But with time, it would fade. Their sense of right and wrong would be warped, turned into indifference. Theirs was the only way. Theirs had always been the only way.

Slam.

The locker hurt his back. He could feel his eyes burning from unshed tears, things he could not show, he was seeing red. He could not show weakness. He could also not show anger. That would only bring about more. He could show no reaction. Silent, he stared down. Demure. As if nothing had happened. As if this was normal. IT’S NOT NORMAL, he wanted to scream. If he showed a reaction, they would find more pleasure in tormenting him. If he didn’t, they would move on.

Slam, the wall hurt his back. His head banged against it. He felt stars. They were behind the school. No one could see anything here. This was a blind spot. No windows, no cameras. He was silent. A sickness in his stomach. Please don’t. Please don’t. He thought.

Slam.

Playground. His knees scraping against sand. He could feel it now in his shoes. They were getting more brazen, but the relief was that they got bored quicker too. Stand up against a bully. That sounded nice in theory. But if you punched a bully, he punched you harder. And his bullies were usually kids stronger and bigger than him.

Slam.

His head hit the railing on the swing. He closed his eyes, willing himself not to see stars. They followed him here, in the darkness behind his eyelids. He opened his eyes.

Slam.

Party at his house. His parents had invited his whole class over. One of them had been making out with his sister. He had tried to stop it. His goons had dragged the boy away. He was in the basement.

Slam.

They would get bored. Wouldn’t they? They had to. He wasn’t showing them a reaction. Why were they not stopping?

Slam.

He looked at the road. An ant was scurrying about, unaware. Uncaring.

Slam.

It was at a different place every time. Maybe that’s why they felt the excitement still. Why would anyone feel excitement at causing another human being harm? He didn’t understand.

Slam.

He bullied the child. He threw him onto the tarmac.

Slam. He was a child. He was pushed aside as his father rushed to beat up his wife for the eggs not being the way he asked them. These were a little too hard. He liked them runny.