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What were to happen if a bullied teen was pushed too far?

17 year old Nathan Wright is the answer to that question. Being once popular in his middle school, his so called friends all dropped him by the time they reached high school. He now is physically and emotionally abused by his peers, led by his once childhood friend Trevor Myers.

Unbeknownest to his tormentors, Nathan has been keeping a record of his bullying that he calls a 'strike' by writing it down on his bedroom wall.

His ultimate goal is to reach 500 strikes. What will happen when he accomplishes this? Payback of course! View table of contents...


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Submitted:Sep 26, 2010    Reads: 306    Comments: 5    Likes: 3   



I was sent to the cement wall painfully from the brutal hit as my tormentors laughed at my expense. I could tell I was bleeding from my mouth without having to look in the mirror that was to my right. We had just finished our tag team football game for P.E. and while in the locker room I had been cornered. Of course before the game, I had been picked last. I was always picked last. It didn't even have to do with me being atheletically poor; I was actually pretty fast and strong. Nevertheless, I was the loser of the school. No one picks the loser to be on their team.

The one who had struck me in the face, Seth, the black haired jock whose job in life was to tease me and call me a 'woman' spun me around from my shoulder to face him. He and the rest of my harassers had superior looks on their faces; they just loved the fact that they had power over me. As though I was an insignificant bug and they were kings seated up high on their pedastals.

"I'm sorry; did I hurt you?" he taunted. I just stared at him, not giving him an answer. "Answer me, faggot!"

I didn't. He then lost his patience and punched me hard in the stomach. I gave a grunt and doubled over as I held my torso. He chuckled at me. He enjoyed my pain.

Suddenly, I felt punches and kicks coming from all directions. I shut my eyes tightly as they abused me. I didn't cry or scream; I didn't want to give these punks the satisfaction. Besides, they would probably thrive on my tears. How much better is it to beat up someone when they cry for you to 'stop' and 'please, don't hurt me'?

They didn't stop attacking me until the bell rang for the next class. For good measure, someone kicked me in the ribs and then spat on my face. I lied there only for a few more minutes; once I heard the locker room door open again, I stood up and limped my way to the showers. I closed the stall doors while I stripped from my P.E. outfit and leisurely sauntered over so I could turn the knobs and be refreshed in the warm soothing water.

When I was finished, I quickly dressed into my regular clothes and nearly ran out of the locker rooms with my backpack in hand. I heard a few of the other boys whispering and saying cruel things about me, but I ignored them. Instead of going to my next class, I jumped over my high school's building fence and headed home. The noon sun shining hotly down on me felt good on my sore muscles. I could tell the guys had did a number on me.

It didn't take me long to arrive to my house. I always took a short cut by walking alongside the railroad tracks. I lived in a middle class neighborhood surbubia with my single widowed father. My mom had died giving birth to me; sometimes I would curse my own existence and wish that it had been me instead of her to perish; especially when the bullying had began.

I narrowly missed the nice garden that was growing on our trimmed lawn and hurried my steps to unlock my front door to my house. Thank goodness that my dad and I had moved a couple of years ago to this modest one story Colonial home. I remember they used to follow me home just to trash our front lawn. Imagine explaining that to my dad.

I carelessly threw my backpack on my rumpled bed when I entered my bedroom. I strolled over to the corner of my room and opened the drawer to my computer stand to rummage through my junk of clips, staples, and papers until I felt a round object touch the tip of my finger. With a half aching smile on my face (which I'm sure made my injuries worse), I brought out one of my colorful permanent markers. It was red this time.

Locking my drawer rather loudly, I then leaped onto my bed to stand. My eyes explored my graffiti looking cream colored wall for a free spot. I found one a few seconds later and began to write.

#494 Strike: Came to school today and headed into my homeroom. I was left alone for a while until Sheena came in and knocked my books on the floor. She then scowled at me and yelled: "Why are you so clumsy, freak?!" I didn't answer her and instead bent down to retrieve them. Before I had a chance to get back to my seat, she put her foot on my shoulder and kept me down. My other peers had arrived by then and were pointing and laughing at me. She then said, "Why don't you stay down there. You're a dog, aren't you? Dogs belong on the floor." Fortunately, the teacher came into the room so I was relunctantly let go.

#495 Strike: Kyle decided it was funny to snatch my AP homework and rip it up right in front of me. I got a zero because of it. He then laughed and said: "I guess the dog pissed on your homework!" What is up with the word dog today? And what is up with Kyle's love of dogs? I swear he loves his dogs more than life itself.

I could feel involuntary tears welling in my eyes as I continued to write. I blinked them back however and resumed, albeit more shakily.

#496 Strike: During football in P.E., I was tripped on the field before I was able to get a touchdown. Didn't Nick want to win the game? When the coach had said our team lost, instead of being upset about it, he seemed quite pleased. I guess he would be. Everybody then blamed the lost on me.

#497 Strike: In the locker room, Seth and his cronies cornered me and began taunting me. When I didn't respond to them, Seth socked me on the mouth and asked me mockingly if he had hurt me. I refused to say anything so he got mad, hit me and his friends joined in and beat me up.

My body was throbbing and my hand was cramped by the time I had stopped on my written entry. I took a step back to sit Indian style on my bed, inwardly telling myself I needed to take some pain medication and cover up my signs of abuse before my dad got home from work. A happy tingle came to my spine when I admired my covered wall of incidences that had been happening to me since my freshman year. My whole room from top to bottom was covered in words, my own silent way of releasing how in fact lonely I was.

I then stared at my last confession and felt a tad of smug triumph. Soon, very soon. My goal was to reach 500 strikes of what those assholes had ever done to me. I had three entries left.

Three more times of the bullying.

Three more times of the taunts.

Three more strikes.

"You're out." I mouthed.


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