Sixth grade, if I remember it correctly, I decided to bring my journal to school as I had been writing in it more and more often. I kept it in my bright salmon backpack where it would be safe, or so i thought.
I was never really popular, especially in elementary school, I was the kid who sat in the corner and quietly spoke to himself while others walked by, laughing and pointing. I had accepted it and I was okay with, at least that part of my life was consistent.
Not ten minutes into the beginning of recess, almost on cue, all the boys took my backpack and started leafing through the many neatly organized papers. Even at that age, I prided myself in my ability to keep things neat and organized, I guess it gave me a sense of security in my otherwise hectic and unpredictable life.
My parents had began to argue about every little thing earlier that year, from what was for dinner to the bills until, one day, my father had enough. He grabbed a bag full of clothes and a few personal belongings and hit the road, taking our only car. The amount of anger I had for my parents was abnormal for a child my age, my journal helped me keep it all in, or more accurately, spit it out.
As they kept fishing, the boys came across my journal. That tiny book was my release and essentially my only friend, it listened to me and never left me, despite my many insecurities.
They picked out the black, leather book and opened the small, magnetic clip. The second they realized what it was, they began to read aloud;
January 3rd, 2005:
Today the boys at school made fun of my backpack, they said it was for girls and called me gay. I don't really like them, diary, they think they're better than me just because they're bigger than me. I think it's unfair I have to be in the same class as them.
-See you tomorrow, Will
They looked back at me with disgust and anger in their plump, arrogant-looking faces and proceeded to pound every last bit of confidence out of me. Every time another blow came, they would yell out things; homo or fag, which hurt quite a bit more than the actual punches. I felt blow after excruciating blow until I couldn't feel anything.
~
I woke up in the small nurses office in the main building of my school, which was very small itself. I saw my mother rush in, with more panic in her eyes than I had ever seen before. She ran directly to me, past the nurse trying to talk to her, and sat down and lay my head on her lap.
"How are you feeling, muffin?" she asked me in a worried tone.
I liked when she called me muffin, it made me feel safe and secure in my mother's arms.
"I'm okay," I replied, "just a little headache."
The nurse left the room to grab an ice pack from a small refrigerator outside the office, my mother closed the door immediately.
"Who did this," she almost yelled, "what are their names, god knows what I would do if..."
The nurse walked back in,
"...I could get that new car I've been looking at." she quickly corrected.
The nurse looked at her with a confused expression.
"Thanks," she said as the nurse passed her an ice pack, "do you know who did this?"
"Some silly kids in his class," she answered, " they were just rough housing."
"I'm sorry," she retorted, " I don't think a person could get knocked out from rough housing, these boys were bullying him."
"Those are the nicest boys I have ever met." the nurse argued.
I knew this wouldn't help or improve anything, it would just lead to a worse beating the next day.
"Why don't we ask Will then," my mom said "what happened? Well spit it out!"
I wished the boys could have hit me harder, so I would still be unconscious.
