Memories (Of Dreams and Demons)

The Mangy Dog (Part 3)

Getting teased at school is something I witness many go through, so much so that it's considered, unfortunately, a natural part of growing up.

As a target I give the bullies and 'cool kids' a lot more ammunition than most, and being the short and slim slip of a child I am, I'm an easy target, unable to fight back with any lasting effect. Fight.

Detach. They're still shoving and ripping into me, laughing at things about myself I have no power over. Power. I tilt my head to the side, turning away, my eyes bright, tears welling up.

So what ammunition? I run the list over in my head again, as if the other children at school reminding me daily wasn't enough.

Because I've recently changed schools I have no background or bonds with any of the other kids, no ties that ensure I have some semblance of friendship or history with anyone. I have no past, no memories that tie me to anyone. I don't really know anyone, and to be seen with me only lowered one's own social status.

I am the outcast, the loser who can't speak properly due to a crippling speech impediment. The garbage who stinks of both stale dam water, because that's what I shower in; and sweat, from the long and uncomfortable bike ride to the bus stop each morning.

Deodorant doesn't cover it up; it only stirs up some horrid concoction of chemical and natural scents that seems even more disgustingly alien to the nose.

I slink down, staring at the bricks, tears running down my face, running over the truth in my head over and over again. I don't need to hear them say it all. I already know. I've heard it a thousand times before. I've heard it all. I have nothing to fight back with. Nothing. I am nothing. Nobody.

Friends. I need friends. I wish I had more real friends. Twice as many as the bullies around me right now, so six. Six awesome friends, that like me, that can fight!

I remember the six rabbit friends I met so long ago, in a place that was not real, slipping away by the day in the memories of my fading childhood. Memories replaced by faces that laugh at me. It makes me sad.

Yet as I flood my mind with daydreams of the Realm, my tormentors flee. I glance up, watching them dash off to find another victim, growing bored at my lack of reaction. I let myself slide down bricks growing increasingly slippery.

As I sit and brood, half in despair, half in thought, the space around me slightly warps. I blink, taken aback, as a slight green tinge and shadow hue covers my vision. The cement turns a sickly green.

You drown in the sewer, a deep, rumbling voice proclaims, unable to even make it to the gutter.

Before me a ladder hovers, jittering within the darkness.

I reach out my hand. The air around me feels thick with a sludge feeding off oxygen. Yet as my fingers draw closer, the ladder slowly slides away, mockingly.

Less than a peasant, the voice chuckles, a sewer rat. Disgusting, worthless, vermin.

I close my eyes. Forget the ladder and its promise. The ladder does not matter; it is nothing compared to the Realm.

Struggle to swim in your cesspool, vermin, the voice continues. I can't shut it out of my head!

How could Naoko ever love gutter trash like you? It laughs, you stink. You are garbage floating in toilet waste.

I shake my head, unsure if the bullies have returned and are shouting at me again. What if they're all right?

If I ever find Naoko again, I need to be.. more. I need to be someone she can be proud of, someone she can love. I stare at the ladder as it shimmers midair, beckoning me, showing me a path to power.