Being Bullied

A work of fiction based on an alternative true life story.

By: Simon Morrell

 

@SimonMorrell

Buy Simon’s Book: From Bullied To Black Belt here!

This is inspired by the wonderful book 642 Things to Write About. The book Being Bullied was already underway but the prompt in 642 help me clarify the plot somewhat.

 

The prompt was; What could have happened to you in high school that would have altered the course of your life?

 

My response to this prompt is based what would have happened if true events had not occurred.

 

You see I was very badly bullied to the point agoraphobia took over. The bullying started in ‘little school’ and had, or so I thought reached it’s peak at high school when I was terrorised on separate occasions by violent youths. My salvation arrived in the form of martial arts and the love of my life Julie, who pushed me when pushing was needed and carried me when I needed to be carried. Both karate and Julie undoubtedly saved me but if neither had arrived? Well here is a work of fiction that I hope shows the bullies in life what misery they cause and what an absolute catastrophe they create. And it is just that, an absolute work of fiction. My real life turned out much better purely by the Grace of God.

 

Here is my alternative life story;

 

“Sorry, we don’t take your type.”

 

Type? What type was I? And so I dared to ask. “May I ask Sir what I am that excludes me from your club? I only want to learn self defence. I am tired of being bullied and just need some help.”

 

“Well maybe that is your problem. Maybe being a cheeky little bastard with a big mouth is not working out for you.” With a hefty crack around the ear I was sent on my way, his last words hitting me hard.”Now fuck off you skinny little prick.”

 

Wow! This wasn’t on the poster. The poster hanging from the wall of the grim little sweet shop. The poster inviting one and all to ‘Come and learn the devastating art of Shotokan Karate and banish those bullies forever!’ The photo of the instructor wasn’t exactly on the money either. The flattering picture (obviously photoshopped) showed our hero in a gleaming white, crispy karate uniform, muscle bound and striking a pose. The reality was a balding, short fat man, grubby in hygiene and stinking of cigarettes. What the hell, what could he teach me anyway? Still a chance would have been nice but martial arts and I won’t cross paths ever again.

 

Still, another golden chance glistened and I hoped with all my heart I would bump into her on the way home. I had my lines all prepared, absolute no way she could resist my charms!

 

Except it wasn’t Julie I came across. It was Jimmy. Jimmy in all his glory and dangerous snarl.

 

“What the fuck are you doing here? This isn’t for a Nancy boy like you.” His eyes catch the piece of paper still in my hand. Damn! I forgot to bin the poster!

 

Jimmy moves with stealth like speed and snatches it from my mitts, now trembling with fear.

 

“Jesus H Christ on a stick! Fucking karate? You think you can put on white pyjamas and take me on? Let us see what you have my fine man!”

 

His cronies laugh as he dishes out yet another beating, this one the worse ever as he is fuelled by my broken dream of learning to look after myself. A full five minutes of kicking and punching produce bruises that would make a peach proud and cuts that send blood streaming down my face.

 

“That’s enough Jimmy. Let him go. Go on son fuck off before he goes again.”

 

Grateful for the intervention of his friend I scramble over a wall and head for home. God knows what my dad will make of this one.

 

Trudging along I see her. I see Julie and a brief hope fills my heart until she sees me. The look on her horrified face reminds me of the blood running down my own. She doesn’t even try to hide her disgust.

 

“When the hell are you going to stand up for yourself?” She admonishes. I start to reply but she cuts me off. “Save it loser. Save it for someone who cares.”

 

Her friends laugh as she beats a hasty retreat. Beaten, now humiliated with only the prospect of facing an angry, drunk and bitter dad at home. Defeated beyond reasonable defeat I weigh up my options.

 

“I’ll take door number two please John!” I say to myself out aloud. And door number two it is. I found the deserted barn some weeks ago and it has been my hiding hole ever since. Filled with football magazines, spare sweets and a bottle of pop I have spent many an afternoon there in my own world. No one even noticed I was gone. A couple of hours in there was my heaven before I returned to the real world. This time there would be no returning.

 

Pushing open the rusty door I find what I am looking for…salvation. Throwing up high and wide salvation finds it’s target first time. A wooden beam. Easy throw, easy way out. The only thing I ever got right. It is after all only a rope…