How to Deal with a Bully

Aftermath

I stared at my dinner, glumly. My stomach churned in rebellion and yet never have I lost my appetite in my faviroute dish: stuffed chicken with broccoli and vegetables, with a sumptuous portion of mashed potatoes, with mushroom sauce cascading from all sides. Usually, this dish would be the highlight of my day; the catalyst of my euphoria. And yet today, I felt as though I was living in exile, without a glimmer of emotion. Every wear I turn, everywhere I go, the cacophony of obscenities would infuse in my head like a spellbound external force clutching my neurones.

Snivelling cunt.

Wanker.

Fuckface.

Bastard.

Son of a whore.

Everywhere I turned his reflection would be there, a triumphant smile playing on his lips. His voice was my own voice and everybody around me. Mason Mclean. The world's most notorious bully.

The things he has done to me, flood back to me from the remotest abyss in the shit hole that was my brain: plunging my head into a toilet, kicking my butt in front of everyone, banging my head in the locker. This was his 'work'. That's what he called it. The work of making sure cunts like me are degraded and shown the debilitated status they deserve.

There was no emotion in his schemes. He did them like a demented beast .His hands, though callused, were very deft when doing their bidding. Every slap in the face was executed like he practiced it a hundred times. Every punch in the gut was performed with inhuman malice. There was no ends to his creativity. He was a connoisseur of misery the way a person can be a connoisseur of tea. When he finished, he would whisper something in my ear. Everyday of the week had a different obscenity. His mind was synchronised to say all of them in order. Monday was ' snivelling cunt', Tuesday was 'wanker' and so on. His friends gave me smirks and walked by as if nothing happened.

"John, can you pass me the mashed potato, please?" My dad called.

"Whaaa-," was all I can manage. I couldn't register what was happening.

"The mashed potato." The words were so delicate, they appeared to be foreign.

"Oh right! Right!" I stood up so hastily I knocked down my fork. "Shit!"

"Language!" Every merriment that was once in his voice was coiled to edge indignation.

I handed him the dish with mashed potato. He took it silently with a furtive nod.

"Are you alright, son?" My mother looked at me sympathetically. Her eyes looked hollow from the late hours of working. Nursing has taken a heavy toll on her sleep routine. But the look she gave me was more than plain commiseration. It was pain. She had always granted me unconditional love. No matter how many schemes I did. No matter how many glasses I broke (from playing football), no matter how many tests I fail, she helped me navigate my way from the labyrinth. The only trial is Mason Douchebag Mclean.

"Um - ," Cunt. Wanker. Fuckface.

Please not now! Please not now.

Tears welled in my eyes.

Goddamn it!

"Bro, you're seriously not going to eat with a dirty fork are you. Go wash it out." My brother, Erick, called out. I looked at him quickly. He had a smile on his face, as though he could read me like a book. He saw my anxiety and decided to help.

I complied obsequiously without uttering a word. I looked at myself in the mirror. My cheeks looked flushed and I knew I was on the verge of tears.

Time to make a distraction.

"Um guys, I have to go do homework. I've got a math assignment I need to complete before Monday." My voice was tentative and squeaky.

"You barely touched your plate."

"I know, mom. Its just, um-" I swallowed, "I need to send one of my classmates my work so he could finish it. We're supposed to do a poster."

My mom gave a curt nod, though I could tell she smelt something dodgy from my erratic behaviour. My parents weren't the most gullible of people, but they preferred to let me fight my own battles. They assured me that, whatever trouble I was faced, I was the only one that could ultimately overcome the obstacles. That was until they saw my bruises.

The bruises in my head from my beatings stirred their sympathy and action to a level I did not anticipate. They gave me a look of sincere agony and tried every trick in the book to ferrate the truth from me, but I remained obdurate in my stance to keep my torment hidden. They once talked to my teachers after my grades dropped a bit. The teachers confided about a shift in my attitude as well as a gradual diminishing in my trademark exuberance in class. I was well known in making jests and participating before Mason walked down the halls of my school.

They talked to me both individually, expressing their distraught at my state. I remained steadfast, uttering only flat words like "I understand", "I'll try", and "I'll work harder next semester". But when they asked what they could do to help, I could not disguise the truth. I opened my mouth to reply but the words betrayed me and I just shook my head.

Mom had to ask for an excuse in her shift to pick me up from school after an outburst I had in class, where I told the teacher to politely piss off, to which I was suspended. I never saw her fuming the way I did that day. I could see her nostrils flare and her voice did not betray a deep sense of shame. At that moment, I wanted to tell her everything but I just couldn't.

The semester after that, I pulled my shit together and worked assiduously to improve my grades and I did. My torment persisted, though, and nothing infuriated Mason more than when he saw a smile on my face. Reports card day showed me grimace rather than smile despite my impressive results. After my grades, my parents decided to give me some space.

I retreated back to my room, closing the door shut behind me. Literally a millisecond since I stepped inside, I sobbed. I let it all out. Every ounce of frustration, every shred of revulsion was eviscerated from me after five minutes of sobbing. My heart hammered in my chest. But I felt a strange sense of peace.

The door opened, "I'm glad you let it all out, bro. We need to talk."