Bullied: By Hannah Rials
Suddenly, Marie was in a corner, portfolio clasped tightly against her chest as she glanced furtively from left to right. Had they followed her? Was she safe? She could see her art classroom, just a few feet away—a sanctuary in a school of torture. When no one appeared around the corner, she allowed herself to relax, to take a deep breath. Instead of sucking in her flabby stomach, she let the muscles go, her shoulders falling with them. The knots in her back uncoiled, and she slowly loosened her tight fists.
She could feel heavy tears weighing down in the corners of her eyes. She blinked away the forming drops and bit her quivering bottom lip. She could still feel the spot on her head that no longer has hair. They’d torn it right out. Quick as a prowling cat, she only realized what had happened when she looked down and saw a chunk of her greasy, unwashed hair in the girl’s hand.
“Try showering,” they’d hissed, giggling as they threw her hair into the trash.
They’d circled her like a flock of vultures, waiting for her to cry, to crack like she had countless times before. Marie had continued walking through the crowded halls, her eyes down, staring at the spotted floor tiles. A jab to the back. A nail clawing into her arm. Someone stepping on the back of her worn in converse. Then her portfolio was gone , pulled right out of her callused hands. She heard their piercing giggles high above the chatter of the hall. Then the one sound she dreaded most—“RIPPPPPP!” Then another, another, and another…
…She looked down into the portfolio—only one painting left. How to explain this to her teacher?…
…They’d danced through the crowd of students, pulling her hair, whispering names in her ear, names she dare not remember. Her ruddy face grew even redder—red as the blood on her scalp…
…She gently touched the hairless spot, now coated in dried blood, covered by the rest of her greasy, dirt-brown hair…
…Then she’d walked right into them, waiting for her, cruel girlish smiles on their perfectly plastic faces. She couldn’t go back, and she couldn’t go forward. So she stopped, parting the sea of students like Moses, except they weren’t opening her escape; they were opening her to torture.
The girls took slow, calculated steps. Marie tensed, ready to sprint if they touched her, except she didn’t get the chance. All at once, they converged on her, knocking her to the ground, ripping at her hand-me-down clothes, scratching her bare skin, calling her those horrible names, giggling all the while, .
They were prepared for her tears and her futile attempts at escape. However, they never once expected her to scream. Why would they? For all they knew, she was mute. So when she did—when she let that terrible, unparalleled scream rip through the empty hallway—they leapt back in fear, not of her, but of the awful sound.
This gave her a window of opportunity. She snatched her nearly empty portfolio out of one hand then sprinted down the hall, not turning back to see if they’d followed…
…She glanced down at her now broken watch just as they turned the corner, their piercing sights set on her. No one else was in the hallway. They were closer to the art room than she was. She was a deer in headlights, frozen in place and time. One girl giggled. The others just stared silently like sirens, willing Marie to crumble and fall to her demise. She sunk her teeth into her bottom lip and closed her eyes waiting for what was sure to come.
Then…the bell rang. The sound of their high-heeled footsteps stopped. Her eyes remained closed. When the heels clicked again, she cringed, except, she realized, they were growing fainter until they disappeared all together. Only then did she open her eyes, warily glancing down the hall, the sound of their giggles echoing in her ears.
The door to the art room opened and her teacher stepped out, looking at Marie ignorantly, waving her into the room. Once, just once, she looked back over her shoulder after the girls.
She was safe…for now.
No comments:
Post a Comment