Take a Stand Against Bullying

The bunny

“Hey you,” A bigger boy was standing in front of me, poking his finger into my forehead. I was sitting on a bench minding my own business and had no desire for company so I did not answer. “I’m talking to you,” he said, “and when I talk to you, you answer me.”
“Leave me alone.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, leave me alone.”
“I am not going to leave you alone. I’m going to teach you a lesson,” he grabbed a handful of my hair and started pulling me upright. I felt that familiar tightening in my stomach. My legs felt weak.
“Just leave me alone,” I said hoping to avoid confrontation, “I haven’t done anything to you.”
“I haven’t done anything to you,” the boy repeated mockingly in a baby voice. “I haven’t done anything to you,” then he punched me in the stomach. I reeled backwards but he still had a firm grip on my hair. As I stumbled around like a marionette on a string I could feel the searing pain in my scalp as my hair took all of my weight.
“Why?” I gasped.
“Because I don’t like you.” A second punch took my breath away and I felt a warm wet feeling growing in the front of my pants.
The boy looked down at my groin. “He’s pissing himself,” he let go of my hair and took a step back. “He is pissing in his pants. Hey, come look. He is pissing in his pants.” He called to the other children in the schoolyard. Within seconds I was surrounded, there was no escape possible. I just stood there holding my stomach, my head bowed staring in horror at the dark patch on the front of my pants. I felt faint as I desperately tried to hold back the flood, to save some of my dignity. Try as I might I could not stop the dark patch on my shorts spreading to my backside. And then, as if my body had not caused me enough embarrassment, streaks of warm urine started to run down my bare legs and into my socks. I felt a moment of relief as the boy pushed me and I fell back onto the bench. I arched my shoulders over my chest and pulled my knees up under my chin desperately wanting to curl into a ball, to hide the offending inundation, to become invisible.
“Bring the baby a nappy,” a voice said. This prompted a chorus of shouts. “Bring the baby a nappy.” I just sat there, immobile, staring at the drops of urine as they formed on the bench and dripped onto the concrete. It felt as if my face and my neck were on fire. I put my hands to my ears trying to block those hurtful words.
“What’s going on here?” an adult voice brought me back to reality.
“He’s peed in his pants, Sir” several children said in unison.
“Stand up boy,” the teacher commanded.
“Leave me alone,” I said.
“Stand up. Now.”
“No.” The teacher grabbed my arm and roughly pulled me to my feet.
“Come, you must clean yourself.” He started dragging me in the direction of the toilets.
With every step, I could feel the sloshing of the liquid in my shoes. The crowd of children were following close behind chanting “Bring the baby a nappy.”
Despite its grey walls and the stench of excreta, the school toilet building seemed like a warm and welcoming place; a refuge from the agony of those taunts, the cruelty of my comrades.
“Get undressed,” the teacher said when we were inside.
“I want to go home,” like a trapped animal trying to escape its captor I tried to squeeze myself between two urinals.
“Get undressed, you can’t go home with wet pants.”
The strong odour emanating from my lower body convinced me that I had no alternative so I sat down on the floor and took off my shoes and socks. They were thoroughly soaked.
“Now take off your pants and your underpants and put them in the basin,” the teacher said.
The toilet was filling up with children coming to watch the show. I pointed to a free cubicle. “I want to go in there, Sir.” My voice hardly perceptible over the din.
“You will undress right here,” he said “You will get undressed and then you will wash your clothes in the basin. Consider this a lesson not to pee in your pants.” This prompted a roar of laughter from the spectators. I reluctantly took off my shorts and my underpants. Thoroughly embarrassed, I pulled down on my shirt to try and cover my genitals. This prompted another roar of laughter from the gathering. My chin started trembling but I desperately held back my tears as I put my clothes in the basin and filled it with cold water.
“When you’re finished, take your wet clothes to the janitor’s room and ask him to hang them on the boiler to dry.” He turned and frayed a passage through the throng of spectators and disappeared leaving me alone with the taunting crowd.
As soon as I heard the door slam I grabbed my wet clothes and made a dash into a cubicle and locked the door. Deprived of their spectacle the crowd started drumming angrily on the door. I slipped into my wet clothes and sat on the toilet waiting for the boys to leave. Mercifully the bell rang, signalling the end of the break and the toilet slowly became silent as the kids returned to their classes. I just sat there, my cold wet clothes an uncomfortable reminder of my ordeal.

The early morning sun streaming through my bedroom window brought with it the realisation that I would have to return to school and face my persecutors.
“I don’t want to go to school,” I clung to my bedsheets. “Please Mommy, I don’t want to go to school.”
“Markey, don’t you start again. You have to go to school and that’s all there is to it,” she said.
“Please Mommy, please,” I whimpered uncontrollably, “please, please.”
“You must go,” she said sternly, “and hurry you are going to be late.”
“Please,” I begged, “please let me stay at home.”
“You are not sick,” she said, “and you cannot stay at home because there is nobody to look after you.”
“I am sick, my stomach hurts,” I rolled up into a ball clutching my stomach hoping to convince my mother. “Please Mommy, my stomach really hurts.”
“Nonsense. Get dressed.” She grabbed my school uniform from a pile of clothes on the floor. “Why are your shorts wet?” she looked at me quizzically, “and your socks as well?”
My cheeks flushed but I remained silent. I had said nothing to my parents about my nightmare of the previous day. She went to the wardrobe and took out a clean pair of shorts. “Here, put these on.” I realised the resistance was futile and got dressed.

My worst fears were confirmed during the first break between classes. The bully walked over to me and without warning punched me in the stomach.
“Go on, piss in your pants,” he scowled at me, “I want to see you piss in your pants.”
The blow really hurt but I said nothing. My bladder also seemed to be cooperating. He hit me in the stomach again. Still nothing. The third blow landed squarely on my nose. Everything became foggy and I felt my knees buckling under me. As I lay on my back I could taste the sharp tang of iron in the back of my throat, the unmistakable taste of blood. Mercifully a teacher arrived.
“What happened?” she asked looking down at me.
“He fell.” My persecutor lied.
“Are you ok?” she asked helping me to my feet.
“Yes.” I swallowed the blood that had welled in my mouth, “Yes I’m fine.”
“I think you should go see the nurse,” she led me off in the direction of the main building.

For months my persecutor would seek me out at every opportunity and would either punch me or taunt me. On the rare occasions when I was able to stay in proximity of a teacher I would be spared. I never told anyone about my ordeal, probably because I thought that no one cared.

During one morning break I took refuge in an empty classroom chosen at random. As luck would have it, it was the classroom of my persecutor and sitting in a cage on the teacher’s table was a white rabbit. A handwritten sign on the cage read ‘Johann’s pet rabbit’. Reading that name brought back the pain and humiliation that he had put me through. Without hesitation I opened the cage and took the soft animal out. I caressed it a few times then without thinking I turned its neck until I could feel bones cracking. The animal made a slight quivering movement then was still. I put it back in its cage. My heart was pounding and my legs trembling as I fled the scene. I had no sooner passed the threshold of the door and Johann appeared.
“Oh, here you are. I have been looking for you,” he said grabbing my shirt. He was about to punch me when I turned to look at the dead rabbit in the cage. In an instant he understood what had happened. The blood drained from his face as he let go of my shirt and rushed toward the cage. “No, no, no, my bunny,” It was the most painful shriek that I had ever heard. “What have you done to my bunny?” His loud wailing brought me neither pleasure nor remorse. It did, however bring me deliverance from his bullying.