Punch, Umaru! Punch!

II

For my eleventh birthday, the birthday after the incident, I didn't get a party, a cake, or anything like that. I only got one present. It was this punching bag. It was as tall as me and most likely weighed more. My father took responsibility for buying it and didn't let my mother get a word in about it. I used it frequently after that, to build up mass then take them bullies back on.

Around the start of my teen years, my father began drinking. He had when he was younger, but not after he had met my mother. She was never a fan of alcohol, so when they got together, he dropped it. Now, when he picked it back up again, he wouldn't drink just one or two a day. He would get sloshed and when he did get that intoxicated, he got mean. He would call me and my mother names, throw ashtrays at me, whip me with the buckle end of his belt, and more. Everyday, my only way out of forgetting all of the things that were going on in my life was that punching bag and working out. I even ended up taping a picture of my father onto it and would hit it as hard as I could until I couldn't stand to look at his face anymore. No matter how hard I hit the picture, the same smug grin he had would not change on it. I was around fourteen at this time and had gotten much bigger. I had just gotten into eighth grade and was ready to take on the bullies who deserved a beating.

I came to school that day with one thing on my mind: Revenge. I showed up late that day. Not just late, but the kind of late to where you knew that something was up and oh yeah, something was fucking up. I marched on into the lunchroom after taking care of my things, only to find out everyone had already went out for the "recess" time they let us have. I speeded outside, hungry for blood. I scouted around after rushing through the doors that led to the outside world. It only took me a few moments to know where they were; behind the old oak tree, right where they always hang out.

As I walked around to where they could see me, the biggest one spurted out: "What's going on, fag? Why were you so late? Your daddy hit your mommy so much that you couldn't get a ride?" They snarled, then laughed at me. I didn't say anything. I remained calm, breathing in through my nose, and out of my mouth every six seconds. I approached the leader of the small gang of assholes slowly. Before I knew it, I was right next to him. He spat in my face. His saliva was wet and slimy. That was the last straw.