Post by zoot on May 24, 2006 9:22:42 GMT
Escaping
They’re out there. I can hear them, pushing and shoving each other, using foul language and telling stupid jokes. My heart sinks as I smell cigarette smoke. This means that they will be there for a while yet. Robert Smith’s voice is louder than the others as he tells them what he is going to do next time he sees “that little pratt.” He means me, and I silently pray that he doesn’t realise that I’m only a few feet away from him in the toilet cubicle. Robert is the biggest boy in the school, five feet ten and must weigh 14 stone. He is a bully, and I am his main target. I am not allowed to wear a watch – he has destroyed three so far – while he is around, not allowed to bring my MP3 player to school with me, not allowed to have sweets, not allowed to bring lunch unless he is allowed to stomp on it in the playground. Some kids have the odd item of clothing thrown into the shower; Robert prefers to slash my clothes with a Stanley knife and dump them all in the shower. Sometimes he prefers to fill my blazer pockets with custard, and once he slashed my penis with his knife. I couldn’t tell anyone about that, especially not my parents, because telling anyone would mean having to show them what he did. I believe that Robert is insane.
Fourteen months ago, on August 19th, Billko died. He was thrown off the railway bridge by Robert Smith and was run over by a train as he tried desperately to drag himself off the tracks. William Jones, a.k.a. Billko, was my best friend, and had been since primary school. He was quiet and intelligent and was Robert Smith’s main target, although I could never figure out what he’d done to deserve the treatment meted out to him. The day that Billko was murdered, Robert was demanding a cigarette, but Billko didn’t smoke. That was not seen as a valid excuse, and so Robert “punished” him by lifting him up and throwing him over the bridge. I am so very ashamed that I did nothing to help Billko, and I tell myself that it happened too quickly for me to react in time. I saw Billko disappear over the bridge and started to run to the embankment to help him, but was grabbed roughly by Robert who told me “You’re next.” He was about to lift me when we heard the train. I am still haunted by the look in his eyes as he told me “Tell anyone and you’re dead.” He ran, then, and I ran to the embankment and started down. I heard Billko shout that he’d broken his leg, then heard him scream as he realised that the train was coming straight at him. I was about halfway down the embankment when I heard the screeching of the train’s brakes, and remember seeing surprise on the faces of some of the passengers as the train suddenly decelerated. I saw the train smash into Billko, saw his head explode and his body disappear beneath the train. Then the train was gone, just before I reached the tracks, and I was puzzled because Billko wasn’t there. I could still hear the screeching of the train’s brakes in the distance, and looked in that direction. There was something lying at the side of the track a hundred or so feet away, and I walked towards it as I shouted Billko’s name over and over. I am not exactly sure about when the realisation hit me that the object was Billko’s arm, and I am not sure either about how I realised that that was his mangled body, or most of it, just up ahead. I became aware that I was in a hospital, and discovered later that I had refused to let go of Billko’s arm until a policeman took charge. I have no memory at all of the next four days. The inquest revealed that Billko and I had been “indulging in horseplay on the bridge with tragic consequences.”
Six weeks later, I went back to school. New term, new uniform, a few new teachers. Robert Smith sat behind me in the classroom and whispered threats all the way through the first lesson. As I got up to leave the classroom at the end of the lesson, he tripped me up and stamped on my hand, then helped me up as though he was my friend. Later, in the playground, he took my lunch bag from me and ground my sandwiches into the dirt with his foot, laughing as he did so, with his fellow bullies looking on and enjoying the show. After kicking me a few times, he decided to turn his attention to a few other unfortunates. After P.E., I showered and returned to the changing room to find that Robert was looking at me and grinning, while his cronies lurked around him. There were several strips of material hanging on pegs to the side of him, but I didn’t make the connection until I looked for my underpants. I put my shorts back on as they laughed, and I noticed that the other kids in the changing room stayed carefully neutral. My socks were undamaged, so I put them on, then slid my right foot into my shoe and felt something cold and clammy between my toes. My shoes had been filled with custard and everyone in the changing room was laughing at me as I realised. That was when I saw red, and charged at Robert Smith, landing a fist in his mouth before he recovered and proceeded to try to beat me to a pulp. I was saved by the intervention of Mr. Green, the P.E. teacher, one of the few people at the school who was bigger and stronger than Robert. Mr. Green questioned us both until he got the full story, and sent Robert to the headmaster’s study before helping me to clean the custard out of my shoes. When I put my blazer on, I put my hand into the pocket to retrieve my watch and felt something sharp go into my finger. That was when I noticed the marks on my blazer, and realised that someone had smashed my watch into tiny pieces while I was in the shower. My bus fare was missing too, so I had to walk eight miles home that evening, but not before being beaten up again.
This has gone on for far too long now. I wake up dreading going to school, but with a mother as sharp as mine I have managed to stay at home “sick” for only three days in total. She doesn’t know what I go through each day, how fearful I am, and I can’t bring myself to tell her. Besides, if I tell anyone, Robert Smith will kill me. I know he will, and I wish I had the guts to tell people about Billko and how he died. I have nightmares about Billko, about seeing his head explode in slow motion as the train hits him, and at the moment of impact I hear Robert Smith’s voice telling me that I’m next. I usually wake up at that point, but a few times the nightmare has continued until I pick up Billko’s arm. I am thinking about the nightmare as I sit in the toilet cubicle. Old Boney, Mr. Cruickshank to you, is staring at me and demanding to know why I am smoking in the toilets, but his voice is far away, and I don’t think he realises that the painkiller bottle is empty.
They’re out there. I can hear them, pushing and shoving each other, using foul language and telling stupid jokes. My heart sinks as I smell cigarette smoke. This means that they will be there for a while yet. Robert Smith’s voice is louder than the others as he tells them what he is going to do next time he sees “that little pratt.” He means me, and I silently pray that he doesn’t realise that I’m only a few feet away from him in the toilet cubicle. Robert is the biggest boy in the school, five feet ten and must weigh 14 stone. He is a bully, and I am his main target. I am not allowed to wear a watch – he has destroyed three so far – while he is around, not allowed to bring my MP3 player to school with me, not allowed to have sweets, not allowed to bring lunch unless he is allowed to stomp on it in the playground. Some kids have the odd item of clothing thrown into the shower; Robert prefers to slash my clothes with a Stanley knife and dump them all in the shower. Sometimes he prefers to fill my blazer pockets with custard, and once he slashed my penis with his knife. I couldn’t tell anyone about that, especially not my parents, because telling anyone would mean having to show them what he did. I believe that Robert is insane.
Fourteen months ago, on August 19th, Billko died. He was thrown off the railway bridge by Robert Smith and was run over by a train as he tried desperately to drag himself off the tracks. William Jones, a.k.a. Billko, was my best friend, and had been since primary school. He was quiet and intelligent and was Robert Smith’s main target, although I could never figure out what he’d done to deserve the treatment meted out to him. The day that Billko was murdered, Robert was demanding a cigarette, but Billko didn’t smoke. That was not seen as a valid excuse, and so Robert “punished” him by lifting him up and throwing him over the bridge. I am so very ashamed that I did nothing to help Billko, and I tell myself that it happened too quickly for me to react in time. I saw Billko disappear over the bridge and started to run to the embankment to help him, but was grabbed roughly by Robert who told me “You’re next.” He was about to lift me when we heard the train. I am still haunted by the look in his eyes as he told me “Tell anyone and you’re dead.” He ran, then, and I ran to the embankment and started down. I heard Billko shout that he’d broken his leg, then heard him scream as he realised that the train was coming straight at him. I was about halfway down the embankment when I heard the screeching of the train’s brakes, and remember seeing surprise on the faces of some of the passengers as the train suddenly decelerated. I saw the train smash into Billko, saw his head explode and his body disappear beneath the train. Then the train was gone, just before I reached the tracks, and I was puzzled because Billko wasn’t there. I could still hear the screeching of the train’s brakes in the distance, and looked in that direction. There was something lying at the side of the track a hundred or so feet away, and I walked towards it as I shouted Billko’s name over and over. I am not exactly sure about when the realisation hit me that the object was Billko’s arm, and I am not sure either about how I realised that that was his mangled body, or most of it, just up ahead. I became aware that I was in a hospital, and discovered later that I had refused to let go of Billko’s arm until a policeman took charge. I have no memory at all of the next four days. The inquest revealed that Billko and I had been “indulging in horseplay on the bridge with tragic consequences.”
Six weeks later, I went back to school. New term, new uniform, a few new teachers. Robert Smith sat behind me in the classroom and whispered threats all the way through the first lesson. As I got up to leave the classroom at the end of the lesson, he tripped me up and stamped on my hand, then helped me up as though he was my friend. Later, in the playground, he took my lunch bag from me and ground my sandwiches into the dirt with his foot, laughing as he did so, with his fellow bullies looking on and enjoying the show. After kicking me a few times, he decided to turn his attention to a few other unfortunates. After P.E., I showered and returned to the changing room to find that Robert was looking at me and grinning, while his cronies lurked around him. There were several strips of material hanging on pegs to the side of him, but I didn’t make the connection until I looked for my underpants. I put my shorts back on as they laughed, and I noticed that the other kids in the changing room stayed carefully neutral. My socks were undamaged, so I put them on, then slid my right foot into my shoe and felt something cold and clammy between my toes. My shoes had been filled with custard and everyone in the changing room was laughing at me as I realised. That was when I saw red, and charged at Robert Smith, landing a fist in his mouth before he recovered and proceeded to try to beat me to a pulp. I was saved by the intervention of Mr. Green, the P.E. teacher, one of the few people at the school who was bigger and stronger than Robert. Mr. Green questioned us both until he got the full story, and sent Robert to the headmaster’s study before helping me to clean the custard out of my shoes. When I put my blazer on, I put my hand into the pocket to retrieve my watch and felt something sharp go into my finger. That was when I noticed the marks on my blazer, and realised that someone had smashed my watch into tiny pieces while I was in the shower. My bus fare was missing too, so I had to walk eight miles home that evening, but not before being beaten up again.
This has gone on for far too long now. I wake up dreading going to school, but with a mother as sharp as mine I have managed to stay at home “sick” for only three days in total. She doesn’t know what I go through each day, how fearful I am, and I can’t bring myself to tell her. Besides, if I tell anyone, Robert Smith will kill me. I know he will, and I wish I had the guts to tell people about Billko and how he died. I have nightmares about Billko, about seeing his head explode in slow motion as the train hits him, and at the moment of impact I hear Robert Smith’s voice telling me that I’m next. I usually wake up at that point, but a few times the nightmare has continued until I pick up Billko’s arm. I am thinking about the nightmare as I sit in the toilet cubicle. Old Boney, Mr. Cruickshank to you, is staring at me and demanding to know why I am smoking in the toilets, but his voice is far away, and I don’t think he realises that the painkiller bottle is empty.