Daily Prompt 17
Fight
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Struggle
By Bethany Cody
The ground is soft from three days worth of ceaseless rain. Droplets darken the branches of leafy gum trees over the creek as it runs wild with frothy, weed infested water. Magpies flit about on the overgrown grass, unearthing worms with the pointed tip of their black and white beaks. Pete watches them as he walks, his shoes two sizes too small, secondhand, the soles worn thin. He feels each stone and twig underfoot as he walks to the bus stop across the main road. He's seven years old, the eldest of his two siblings and only son to his mother and father, Welsh immigrants from Pontypridd. They journeyed from Wales as young teenagers in the early fifties and quickly made a home in the scenic suburbs of northeast Adelaide, South Australia. Each morning Pete takes himself to the bus stop to catch the first of two buses to get to school, while his parents look after his young sisters.
It's only a few minutes before the bus comes. Pete wipes the palms of his hands on the ratty material of his trousers. Exhaust fumes slither into the soft tissue of his lungs as the bus pulls up to the curb and he waits nervously for the doors to part before stepping across the threshold into frigid air conditioning. The driver takes off before Pete is seated and he desperately grasps onto a nearby rail to keep from falling. His eyes dart left-to-right, avoiding the stares of other passengers and he finds a vacant window seat. The vibrant, abstractly patterned material is still warm from it's previous occupant when he seats himself and settles in.
The bus jumps and judders as they travel along the road. Pete can feel it in his chest, the ceaseless vibration of the engine and is soaked in the lingering stink of diesel fuel.
"Hey Petey."
He jumps at the sound of the older boy's voice.
"Oi, Pete!"
He glances at the back of the bus. When he sees them his neck snaps back and he swallows around the feeling of sudden uncertainty, fear, determinedly watching the world go by through his window.
"Don't wanna talk today?"
Pete's hands form fists at his sides.
"C'mon, Pete. Talk to us."
A second boy joins in, "Yeah, talk to us."
The boys slink from their seats to crowd around Pete's back, boxing him in. Their breath moistens the window and Pete struggles to discern the blurry shapes beyond. He worries he's going to miss his stop.
"Don't be rude, man."
"You should come sit with us, Pete."
His shoulders are tense, sore from hunching over and when someone touches his neck, he shivers.
"Relax, Pete. We aren't gonna hurt you."
They laugh meanly and Pete sees a few of the passengers at the front of the bus watching them silently, their eyes empty. He's smaller than the older boys, quiet. He doesn't cry when they call him names and cuss, when they push him towards the rear of the bus and squeeze his arms to keep him in place. As they come up on their stop they leave the bus single file, shoving and bumping Pete's back with their shoulders, roughing him about. He meets the driver's eyes in the rear-view mirror, soundlessly pleading but the driver looks away and Pete leaves with the rowdy group of boys.
"You got any money today Pete?"
He shakes his head.
The footpath is littered with golden wattle flowers and he's afraid he'll be stung by a bee, allergic.
"Hurry up."
The boys march Pete into a shaded corner at the rear of the school building.
"You gotta give us something."
He keeps his eyes trained on the damp ground at their feet, waiting for the inevitable. It starts when the school bell rings. Dozens of closed-fist punches land on his skin. He howls with each blow until someone covers his mouth to dampen the sound.
"Shut up!"
They continue their assault, kicking Pete in places his hands aren't quick enough to defend.
For a moment the fingers slip from his mouth and he begs, "Please."
His arms and legs and stomach sting from the beating, his pulse gallops in his chest and his ears start ringing.
"Please stop."
Eventually they do. When Pete is curled into himself on the dirt, his entire body consumed with pain, his throat hoarse from crying, from screaming, from being choked to near unconsciousness, the group of boys turn away and leave. Through the slits of his swollen eyelids he watches them go. When the turn the corner he takes a deep breath and softly cries into the drying mud. He's late for class and when he sorely takes his seat the teacher gives him a quick look over before moving on with their morning. He often wonders why she doesn't say anything, much like his parents at home. He wonders if tonight they'll ask about the black eye, the bruises. He wonders when it will stop, if he will one day beat the bullies on the bus.