A Stone’s Throw
When I was in elementary school, the three biggest jerks harassed me for being a little bit smarter, quieter, and gentler than the rest. They would constantly call me names, push me against walls, break my lunchbox, laugh at my clothes, and even throw glass and stones at me. This pretty much went on for about three years until, at some point, I reached my breaking point.
When I made my way home during lunch break one day, they decided to throw stones at me again and they hit me in the head. I cried and ran home. However, the crying quickly turned into anger, and the anger turned into rage. I felt every muscle of my body tense and tingle, thinking about what they had been doing to me all those years. I had enough.
I left home a little bit earlier and waited for them outside school. One of them—the biggest one of the three—turned up earlier than the others. He seemed surprised that I slowly walked toward him instead of walking away. When I stood in front of him, he tried to speak, but before he mustered out a word, my fist impacted his jaw, and he dropped to the floor.
At that point, his friends and the rest of my classmates showed up. I pulled him back up, left him dazed and confused for a few seconds, and gave him another jab. This time I wasn’t going to help him upright, and I decided the parking lot needed some sweeping. So, I took my antics to the next level—I grabbed his collar and dragged him across the lot for 20 seconds. He started crying.
His face was bleeding, his clothes were ripped, and he had a sad, beat-up puppy look. He started running away towards his aunt’s house nearby. I chased him for a couple of meters, but I decided he had enough. Our teacher had also witnessed the beating but decided not to intervene. When class started, he called both of us together. I thought I was in deep trouble, but the look of approval on his face was priceless.
I finally did what he was hoping I would do. From that point on, nobody ever did anything to me again.