I’m trying to push myself a bit as a writer, jazzforthecaptain suggested I look for something in my past to write about. So, this is me, maybe age 9.
I clutch my book to my chest and follow everyone out to the playground. Lunch is over and now is the short time for children to play. But not for me. I see the others laughing and talking but I walk with my head down, trying to be invisible, bracing myself for the first attack.
“Ugly.”
I look up but the voice is already gone, lost in the crowd. I step outside and breathe the spring air, fresh after the cold winter. Some kids are playing dodgeball or four square or shrieking, laughing on the swings.
I break away from the mob, seeking freedom, solitude. “Hey, stupid,” one of the boys tries for my attention, wolffish smile on his face as his friends watch. As if smashing the low hanging fruit is a victory.
I try to ignore it but the words echo in my mind, keeping fresh the old wounds I’ve dealt with for years. Like a tired soldier I silently walk to a tree and sit, opening the book. The dandelion-dotted grass smells fresh-cut and new, rough bark at my back. Sinking into the story I vaguely hear the sounds of play but I am not part of it.
I’m a child by age but my book is my shield, my loneliness my armor. The concourses and playground are my battlefield. Every exchange a landmine where I am the only casualty.
Adults see nothing; the wounds are invisible. “Everyone gets teased,” they say. “Boys are boys,” while I stand with my tattered heart silently screaming for it to stop. “Why don’t you play with the other kids?” As if I had any real choice. The slightest whiff of vulnerability and I’m torn apart by wolves.
The bell rings and I drag myself back to the reality around me. I am not the brave knight. Nor am I beautiful and valued enough to be the damsel in distress. I step out of the sunlight, blinking in suddenly dim halls, wiping grass from my clothes. A handful of classmates stops talking as I approach, only to laugh as I walk away.
Teasing words follow me down the hall like seeking missiles. Tears sting my eyes as they find their target. I keep my head down and the book shielded against my chest, not strong enough to withstand, but having no other choice. I reach the classroom and slink into my chair, trying my best to turn invisible, to no avail. This is my battlefield, a wounded soldier beyond the reach of safety.
