Motherfucker, motherfucker, motherfucker.
The words were scribbled on the door to the stall.
His heart raced, and he tried to think of what to do. Of how to get out.
What else could he do when his teacher didn't believe he was being targeted though he'd gone to the nurse with more than a few bloody noses from more than a few soccer balls to the face during gym class. How could it be a bad coincidence when it was kicked by the captain of the soccer team?
How could he show the teacher all the messages blowing up his phone, calling him:
Motherfucker, motherfucker, motherfucker.
When he'd be the one in trouble for bringing his phone to school?
How many more times did he need to say, "I'm scared"?
How many more times could he ask for someone for help?
Was it really that hard to connect the dots on the days that he sat at a lunch table by himself with nothing? Even more so, when his tormentors had their own lunches and then some; extra snacks and drinks littering their table as they toasted to their success with their colorful cans of Fanta.
Each clink sounded like the tick- tick- ticking of the countdown to his now-inevitable demise.
Teacher wouldn't help him now.
Even if he was gone, what would they say?
They'd all stop for just a moment, stunned that he actually went through it, but they'd certainly recover saying, "I'm glad he's dead. He's a motherfucker after all." They'd get in trouble. The principal would be called in, asking questions about how this could have happened.
The teacher would say they didn't see the signs as if their desk wasn't full of his notes: his pleas for help. They'd pin the blame on his dead corpse, adding him to the wrong statistic as the next student was hazed and ignored. The cruel words they wrote on the stalls about him, the waterlogged notebooks in his desk, and threatening text messages would be washed away, burned, and deleted.
Motherfucker, motherfucker, motherfu-
It was no use banging on the door any longer. They'd thrown him the rope, now they could take the blame. Even if it was only by cutting him down.
The words were scribbled on the door to the stall.
His heart raced, and he tried to think of what to do. Of how to get out.
What else could he do when his teacher didn't believe he was being targeted though he'd gone to the nurse with more than a few bloody noses from more than a few soccer balls to the face during gym class. How could it be a bad coincidence when it was kicked by the captain of the soccer team?
How could he show the teacher all the messages blowing up his phone, calling him:
Motherfucker, motherfucker, motherfucker.
When he'd be the one in trouble for bringing his phone to school?
How many more times did he need to say, "I'm scared"?
How many more times could he ask for someone for help?
Was it really that hard to connect the dots on the days that he sat at a lunch table by himself with nothing? Even more so, when his tormentors had their own lunches and then some; extra snacks and drinks littering their table as they toasted to their success with their colorful cans of Fanta.
Each clink sounded like the tick- tick- ticking of the countdown to his now-inevitable demise.
Teacher wouldn't help him now.
Even if he was gone, what would they say?
They'd all stop for just a moment, stunned that he actually went through it, but they'd certainly recover saying, "I'm glad he's dead. He's a motherfucker after all." They'd get in trouble. The principal would be called in, asking questions about how this could have happened.
The teacher would say they didn't see the signs as if their desk wasn't full of his notes: his pleas for help. They'd pin the blame on his dead corpse, adding him to the wrong statistic as the next student was hazed and ignored. The cruel words they wrote on the stalls about him, the waterlogged notebooks in his desk, and threatening text messages would be washed away, burned, and deleted.
Motherfucker, motherfucker, motherfu-
It was no use banging on the door any longer. They'd thrown him the rope, now they could take the blame. Even if it was only by cutting him down.
