Fiction |
The Bully
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I have always been two Me’s.
The one you see, a 13-year-old boy, neatly attired school uniform, proud of the insignia on blazer and cap. Slow growing, slight of frame, shy, soft-spoken, but known to have a way with words. The other me you cannot see. Deep inside me, hiding in a cauldron, bubbling with shame and rage. I dubbed him “Other Me.” Tasker was my classmate and tormentor. He was tall, hefty, awkward, and shortsighted. During recess he would stare me down, taunt me, spit out nasty insults. I feigned indifference but felt wounded and scared. I had to know why he had a fix on me. I got to school early one morning and placed a piece of paper on his desk, on which was printed a large capitalized one-word message: WHY ??? When he sat down he glanced at me. He seemed befuddled. I gave him a disarming smile. As he pondered the word, deep furrows creased his heavy brow. He seemed nervous. Suddenly he slammed his hand on the message and tore it up. He couldn’t face the truth. As the bell rang for recess, he stared daggers at me and shook his fist. I hurried out, determined to run away, but “Other Me” held back. I knew that I had to stand up for myself. He headed straight for me. Swinging his orangutan arms, making a path for his cheering toadies. He grabbed my shirt and pulled me against him. I was staring into his bulbous fish eyes. He shouted, “Hey, piss-pot, your mother is a whore!” Loud laughter from the chorus. Unrestrained, I yelled back, “Your ugly whore mother can’t get customers!” He shoved me down, flat on my back, straddled me, punching my chest, slapping my face. I tried to hit back but it just inflamed him. On the cusp of pleading for him to stop, I felt “Other Me” clambering out of the hissing, boiling cauldron. My two Me’s were fused as one. I wedged my skinny arms under Tasker’s big buttocks, and with all my might hurled him off me. He landed face down. I let out a whoop, straddled him, bent his right arm and pushed it up until he yelped in pain. “Say you’re sorry!” A faint “fuck you.” I pushed it higher until the pain was excruciating. He cried out, “Sorry.” I got to my feet, walked head high. His silent cronies made a pathway. Then I halted, turned back and knelt next to a sobbing Tasker. I patted him on the head. “Sorry man, I know how you feel.” |
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Rodney J. Shapiro was born and raised in South Africa. He worked as a journalist and published several short stories and articles. He taught English Literature as a part-time school teacher but decided on psychology as a career. He graduated from the University of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg, with a PhD in 1965. He immigrated to the USA in 1966. His professional career included faculty positions as Associate Professor of Psychiatry at the University of Rochester, NY, and Clinical Professor of Psychiatry at the University of California, San Francisco. While dedicated to his profession of clinical psychology, his interests have included long distance running, travel, pets, and amateur photography. His primary reverence is for writing prose and poetry.
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