Enfeebled after the immensely prolonged day, I hopped upstairs, not bothering to acknowledge anyone. Ryan followed along, an elated glow on his features.
"Woah! Your house is HUGE!" he marvelled, admiring every aspect of the structure, "Marble flooring - very high-class and elegant. I feel like a peasant here."
I chuckled, and directed him to my room.
"First door on your right," I grinned.
He held up his thumb, lightly placing his bag on my bed; cautious not to break anything.
"Your room is bigger than my entire house!"
"Eh. It's kinda annoying because everything I do echoes," I replied, with a smile upon my complexion.
"So, as I tried to say earlier, I think we should start at the time of Shakespeare's first play. The first paragraph could be an introductory one, and..."
His articulate voice faded away from my attention, as I stared down at my hands, distracted yet apprehensive.
"And then-" he deliberated, "what's up? I've seen you do that before - when Charlene was being a complete and utter bitch. Am I boring you?"
"No! Please, continue."
"You know, that feeling you have; it won't go away unless you let it all out. Trust me - I'm an expert at this kinda stuff."
I narrowed my eyes in curiosity.
"How are you an expert?" I questioned, unconvinced.
"It's a long story."
"I've got time."
"You don't want to hear it."
I raised my eyebrows, astonished at what he thought of my contemplative mind.
"Okay, if you really think it's necessary," he sighed.
"I'm not originally from here; I was born in Colorado. I stayed there until my mom died of heart disease, and travelled to Nebraska to live with my dad. There, I was bullied. Their names were Brandon, Josh and Zach - I distinctively recall. They called me a 'freak', 'worthless', and every day was a constant battle zone - much like your situation. They beat me to their hearts content, and I still have a scar from one of the times it happened," he gestured towards his head, bunching his dark hair to the left side so that his mark was visible, "And I never had the courage to tell anyone. I wished, with all my heart, that I could be happy, or that someone was there for me. I created an online blog, where people from all over the world gave me hope. Then, THEY found out, and this had only made them worse. So much though, that I moved, here, to Phoenix. It's not much better here, although I'm content that I can make it. And, now I'm here for you. That's how I'm an expert."
His head fell into his hands, as he had recounted possibly the most emotional occasions of his life. Eyes wide, I felt tear droplets forming, and, to avoid embarrassment, I expeditiously swiped the top half of my face.
"Now, what is your story?" he sniffled.
"There's not much to know. I was born in Miami, moved here, then got bullied. I tried so hard to fit in, then figured, 'if I don't even like me, why should I expect others to?'" I shrugged, staring down at my palm once more.
Unanticipatedly, I felt the warm hand belonging to that of Ryan on my shoulder.
"I like you," he assured me.
Hesitant, I managed to reply in the form of a whisper, "I-I-I-I... I like you, too."
YOU ARE READING
Bullied: Isabella's Story
Teen FictionWhen Isabella is forced to move away from what has been her life for as long as she can remember, she tries to think positively of the 'new life' ahead of her. That mindset rapidly decreases and transforms into an endless cycle of being battered and...
