—The Bullies—
I was twelve or so, and it was Summertime.
I’m lying down in bed watching TV when all of a sudden, my brother Tony comes running into the bedroom.
He quickly lifts the mattress and throws something underneath, and lets the mattress drop. He then hops in bed with me.
“I’ve been here all night! Okay?”
“Oooo,Kay… Mind telling me what’s going on and what you just threw under the mattress?”
“You know those guys that have been picking on you?”
My eyes widened. “Yeah”
“They won’t bother you anymore. We all just fought it out.”
“Wait, what?”
“Yep. A bunch of us and all of them. They won’t bother you anymore.”
“Ummm, Tony… What’s under the mattress?”
“Brass Knuckles.”
“What? Oh crap. Is everyone okay?”
“Oh, yeah. Everyones fine. They won’t bother you anymore, though.”
That group of guys had become my worst enemy. They were at least three years older than me. Bigger than me, faster than me, and stronger than me. In short, I feared them.
They would make fun of my legs and how I walked.
I have atrophied legs and feet. I also have crooked bones. As a result, I walk with a limp. Sometimes it’s more pronounced than at other times.
And, if I’m wearing shorts, it’s much more noticeable.
I hated when I had to walk past those guys.
They would mimic how I walked. And call me names.
Sometimes they would get in front of me and not let me pass.
There were a bunch of them and just one of me.
Tony had found me crying in my bedroom earlier in the month, and I told him what they were doing to me.
“I hate them! All they do is make fun of me and knock things out of my hands. They make fun of the way I walk and how my legs look,” I remember saying to my brother.
Tony was always protective of me, and I remember him being upset after finding me crying.
I had no idea he was planning on doing that, though.
I was nervous the next time I had to walk past that group of guys. Very nervous.
They jokingly called me “Sir.”
“I hope you’re having a good day, Sir,” They said as I walked by. I didn’t say anything back.
Eventually, though, it got to where they wouldn’t say anything at all when I had to walk by them.
Years later, after my brothers’ death from a Brain Hemorrhage, my Psychologist is talking to me:
“‘Lynn,’ you try very hard to right the wrongs done to your late brother. Why?”
Looking down at my legs and feet, I said, “He would do the same for me.”
