The Bully
Created | Updated Nov 16, 2006
I stood, cold as stone, face like granite, completely unmoving. The crowd had gathered behind me. Some of the more brave ones patted me on the back and wished me luck. I watched as a small boy meekly made his way across the field, dragging his body as if it weighed more than he could bear to carry.
At first the chant started quietly. One lone voice, but the crowd soon gathered voice and that small whisper soon became a roaring shout. 'Fight! Fight! Fight!'
On hearing this, I could see the boy physically slowing, as if he was having to fight his way to me through a great wind. I turned to face the crowd. I never uttered a single word, but immediately the chant stopped. I turned back to face the boy. He had stopped, unsure — he was floundering. I made a big point of looking at my watch. Then I shouted across to him, 'Hoping I'll grow old before you get here?' A ripple of sniggers ran through the crowd.
Looking at the boy now, I kinda thought that he was going to turn tail and run. I wished he would; it would save us both a lot of trouble. But he gathered his nerve and started, once again, towards me and the crowd. He soon drew near, both of us trying to ignore the whispered talk coming from the crowd behind me. The boy gave me a nod. I sighed inwardly. I hated doing this.
The boy put his hands together as if he meant to pray, then bowed to me. Well, that was new. I gestured that he may want to take off his glasses. He took a step back, standing in a sort of half-squat with his hands out-stretched. I blinked slowly, shrugged and threw my first punch. The boy swung out with his thin arm, blocking me, grabbed my wrist and quickly
spun me around and held my arm behind my back. I smiled as a gasp ran through the crowd. The boy was fast, very fast.
No matter — I kicked out behind me, in the direction of his knee. Again he moved swiftly, catching my leg and sending me sprawling into the mud. I could taste earthy dirt and that metallic tang of blood in my mouth. I smiled through the pain as I scrambled to my feet. This boy had not thrown one single punch and yet I was the one hurt and bleeding. I turned and faced him. In a small voice he asked, 'Are we done yet?'
All of a sudden there was a shout from the crowd and all at once everyone started to scatter, like dust to the wind. The boy and I were left alone as a teacher approached.
'Up to your old tricks, Mr Pastor?' he asked. He looked at the boy, who just shrugged.
'He fell over, Sir. I was trying to help him up.'
'Is this true, Mark?' He asked me.
'Er, yes, Sir,' I replied.
He gave us both a disbelieving look. This caused the boy to put his arm around my shoulders. 'Best of friends, we are, Sir,' he told the teacher innocently.
The teacher still looked like he wasn't convinced. Nevertheless, he walked off back towards the school. The boy patted my back. 'That's a boy, Mark,' grinned Tony Pastor. 'Wouldn't like to think I was going to have to give you another beating for grassing me up.' He grinned again. 'Looks like we'll have to finish this some other time, Mark. Maybe tomorrow?'
He slapped me hard on the back and quickly ran off across the field, leaving me standing, bleeding, alone once more.
