(1042 words) 27 Feb. 2018
By. S.R.A. Markin
I am a loner again. I am better off this way, and more used to it. Besides, I can’t stand people. I never really have gotten along with most people anyway. I still can’t believe how much I got picked on when I was in Elementary, I thought while waiting for the bus.
I would come home after school, puffy faced, and head to my room to cry in my pillow. I would soak that damn pillow for the first hour or two before being called for dinner.
Then mom would come in and sit down at the edge of my bed rubbing my leg telling me such kind things. Then if that didn’t work, she would say that she is “going to kick the shit out of those little fuckers.” I don’t know why I always insisted she didn’t. I nearly begged her not to go to school and hurt anyone. Even looking back, I question if I saved a couple of lives.
I was a chubby kid if you haven’t picked up on that, and I got picked on. So, I guess it was my fault? That is how it works, because kids who are polite, shy, and keep to themselves, are one thing, but if they are fat, well kick the shit out of them. Right? That is what I started to believe, anyway.
I had a few friends in school, and this pretty much stayed the same even until now. Although the faces change here and there, having one or two close people is often as much as I can handle. My friends in elementary couldn’t stick up for me. A couple of them have tried, but this lead to them being pushed to the ground or bullied as well.
One day, in particular, I recall being outside next to our trailer extension classroom in Chase, B.C. I was shoved by some guy, who was two grades ahead of me. Who I am pretty sure failed a grade, so maybe three years older? He had two friends, and they also exchanged unpleasantries. I wasn’t equipped with fast wit like they were for comebacks. Regardless, I took a couple of shots to the gut.
Nearly 17-years-ago, and I recall the bullies words:
“I bet a turkey dinner will come out,” he said before hitting me again in the stomach.
“And stuffing,” one of the other’s said.
The funny part, and what made me laugh was that their punches didn’t hurt. I mean, I was laughing while getting punched, and this must have pissed them off even more because more blows hit my chubby body. I was chubby, not very fat, so they should have been able to hurt me physically. The shitty part is that I didn’t know how to fight back. I couldn’t hurt them.
A few days later, and after years of bullying, my mom had enough. I am certain she would have done this much earlier if I didn’t hide the fact I got my ass kicked on a regular base from a couple of my peers.
Mom told my dad to teach me how to fight. We went for jogs that nearly destroyed my chubby asthmatic self. My lungs would feel like fire. They would burn as I wheezed into my inhaler trying to breathe in so the medication will help me. I wanted to go a little further because I thought this would help me to hurt those boys. I jogged as many times as my dad took me out, which was often.
My parents got me a bench press and a set of weights that look like they were straight out of the eighties. So am I, so I guess it works? They got me two bench presses. I am still uncertain about why two. Maybe they wanted me to hurt those boys as much as I wanted to?
I learned to push the weights from off my bitch tits, as they called them, and curl the weight with my fat stretched marked arms. I was getting faster and stronger, but I still didn’t know how to fight.
Eventually, I was put in karate to learn to defend myself. I am pretty sure this was my mom’s idea. My cousin was in karate as well, and she knew about my bullies. She was teaching me a couple of things about how to throw punches and kicks and what areas to hit. I wanted to be like Bruce Lee against those boys.
I remember being in karate class having to fight someone. Each punch and each kick landed on the padding over my chunky body. I was told to punch and kick back, but I couldn’t do it. This boy wasn’t my enemy like those bullies who I wanted to hurt.
The karate instructor came over one day after many failed attempts from me punching a wooden board. He brought a wooden board. We stood outside in the backyard. I would bow, then throw a punch like I was instructed. I never threw the punch very hard. He eventually left leaving the board for me to practice on. I remember bringing it up to my room and sketching dinosaurs on it. I painted a stegosaurus that was colorful and vibrant. Of course, the dinosaur was a herbivore and extinct, but large and in charge, and that is what I wanted to be. I sat the painted wooden board on my shelf above my bed.
I never did get my revenge on my bullies. I only thought of hurting them. One ended killing himself, and who knows what happened to the other two?
I got on my bus that arrived at university after a long day of school work and training in the gym. I couldn’t imagine what would happen to the two boys who may be still alive if they tried anything with me now. Why should I even care? I am creative, strong, fit, I have a couple of carrying friends who would stick up for me, and I am a sweet-hearted person. I am doing okay, but then again, kicking the shit out of those little fuckers would feel nice.
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