The Bully and The Bullied

We all hate bullies, don't we? But we have never given much thought to WHY exactly they like bullying. No one is born a bully - it's spite, anger, hatred and pain that creates one. *This is my entry for the new competition. I've written this from both the perspectives - the bully and the bullied. Hope you enjoy it.* ^_^

38Likes
109Comments
6542Views
AA

4. Gym Class - Matt

I can’t believe what I just did. They must all be thinking I’ve lost my mind. Even that Jimmy. Damn it!

I started doing this three years ago. But never, not even once since then have I felt like this about it. So guilty. So ashamed. As though whatever I've been doing is not plausible. As though my hatred for that Jimmy is not justified. But...is it?

We had spotted that loser sneaking out of Gym Class today and thought it was the best chance. He was alone. There was no one around, anywhere in close proximity, no teacher who could rescue him. It was the perfect chance. We blocked his way and messed about with him as usual, teasing and taunting him like always. It gave me a lot of satisfaction to do that, for some reason. Like part of the anger and frustration locked up inside me was leaking away. Like causing him so much pain would help wipe out mine. It has always worked until now. What has happened all of a sudden?

"Leave me alone," the loser was whining. "Please...leave me alone." He was so weak. So vulnerable. So fragile. And I hate people like that. I hate the weak ones. I hate them. I can't help it, I loathe them. I have no idea why. Maybe, because I used to be like them once upon a time. Maybe, because I hated myself when I used to be like them. Yeah, I guess that's the reason.

"Ah, that's more like it," I sneered at him. "I can hear you pleading. Now that's good manners. Do some more of it, I say get down on your knees and beg me to leave you alone. Come on, I promise, you do that and we won't hurt you. Come on."

Again, it felt like heaven to do this to him. Mess about with that tiny soul. Make him do things like that. It gave me all the pleasure in the world. I had never really thought about it before, but now that I do, it sounds like a pathetic hobby. Making weaklings dance on your fingertips. It used to be fun. Why isn't it now?!

But, he did something I hadn't been expecting. He shouted, "NO!" and that charged me up. I hit him. He hit me back. The nerve. Bloody moron. I smacked him and sent him flying to the opposite wall, on which he crashed and flopped like a broken china doll. The monstrous satisfaction returned to me. Jimmy was a loser. Just like I used to be.

I couldn't help it, that voice kept chiming irritatingly. You were like him once, Matt. You were no more than the loser Jimmy. You know it. You know what you really are. 

And then, all of sudden, the anger and frustration inside me burst out and I threw myself upon Jimmy. I hit him. Smacked him. Punched him. Twisted his elbows. Cracked his skull. Crunched his fingers. I did everything I could think of, each blow giving me inexplicable pleasure. I hated him. I hated him for being him. I hated him for being weak. I hated him for reminding me of my older self. So I hit it, causing him pain beyond limits. But this time, the pain inside me wasn't going away. Instead, my conscience kept reminding me of what I was doing.

I saw his pathetic face, moaning and whining in pain. Tortured and tormented beyond limits. I wanted to feel happy. I wanted to feel satisfied that I had caused him this pain. That he was suffering, the way I once did. But then he said, "Please. Please... don't..." and all the cruel pleasure I had expected didn't come. All that came was a flashback. 

A tiny, feeble death-pale kid was trotting along the same school corridor, in his first week of high school, hoping to feel happy inside but feeling nothing but numb fear. They would come any minute. He was in danger wherever he hid. He tried to lurk in the shadows, but it was no use. They always found him. Those vultures always found their prey.

"Aha, so here he is," one of them said. "Wittle Mattie baby. Where are you going, kiddie? To the girls' room?"

"I'm not a girl," the little kid mumbled but the gang of tough, big guys just sniggered.

"You are, Mattie, you're a girl. Weak and fragile like them all," they jeered. "Can't even stand on your tiny feet properly." They guffawed, apparently enjoying what they were doing but they didn't know what the little kid was feeling inside. He was feeling worthless. He was feeling small. Pathetic. Pitiable.

"Why don't you leave me alone?" he managed to squeak, but before he knew it, the bullies were upon him. One of them hit his face. The other cracked his skull. The rest of them punched him everywhere. He could feel blood gushing out from all over him, but he was screeching and screaming at the top of his voice. He hoped someone would help him. A Prefect. A teacher. But no one came. No one ever came. He was always tortured, tormented, kicked, punched and smacked by bullies, throughout his first year in high school. "Please...." he kept croaking. "Please...don't...." But they never stopped. They never even realised what it was doing to the kid. They were making him a monster. A monster that craved for revenge. A monster that wanted, at any cost, to avenge himself. 

That was the day the kid had started working out. That was the day he had started taking stands. That was the day he had changed forever. That was the day he had become a bully.

That was it. I couldn't take it any longer. Looking at that pathetic, screwed up face of Jimmy just reminded me too much of what I used to be three years ago. It was painful to look back upon all that. I had tried all I could to leave that past behind and move on to this new life where I was the bully, not the bullied. I got up, stared at the little guy's face reminiscently, but couldn't stand it for longer. So I ran for it.

Join MovellasFind out what all the buzz is about. Join now to start sharing your creativity and passion
Loading ...