Someone smart once said "Choose your battles.", and I thought that meant fight when necessary, walk away if possible. This I believe. When I was younger, I didn’t always choose my battles. In fact, I wouldn't fight at all. I'd take anything anybody ever gave me, wouldn't fight back, and wouldn’t talk back. My mouth was shut and my hands laid by my sides, always relaxed. And I got my ass kicked on a daily basis. I'd get screamed at, harassed, pushed to walls and lockers, and I still stayed quiet. I'd go home and my mother would ask "Where'd the new bruises come from?" And I'd lie and say it was my friends. 'We were just playing..' and I'd limp to my room. I'd hibernate in my cave and do nothing but fry my retinas with animal planet and discovery channel until my mother would summon me with dinner. I'd shove my face and eat my problems, hoping they'd just sliver away in my stomach acid. Breaking news: They didn't. So, I'd go back to school. I'd deal with the stupid boys' abusive tendencies everyday. I never had the courage to speak out against them.
This behavior had gone on for quite a few months, until a very special day. The day before, the abusers had made my friend cry. Today, I had woken up with a look in my eye, a crick in my neck and smile on my face. So, I camped at the lunch table. I slid sewing scissors together, and apart, folding them to keep me calm as they sat at the table next to us. I eyed them all. I breathed slowly as I saw them look up at me and my troops. And they smiled slightly; one boy nudged another with a "watch this" look on his face. And they launched their missiles of cantaloupe, watermelon and other mystery lunch line fruits. And I was hit. A cantaloupe nailed me directly in the face, and all their arms shot up like they were screaming "Goal" at a soccer game. My nostrils flared. I stood up, scissors in one hand, cantaloupe in the other. And I took their grenade to their table and I slammed it down. "If you don't stop messing with me and my friends, this'll be your head." I said, strangely calm, as I commenced stabbing with the scissors. I sat back down at my table, laughing. They were horrified. This was the first time they had ever heard me speak, and the first time I had ever fought back. The next day, however, they went to the principals office [which we had already done to report their abuse but no help was given.], and they ratted me out, saying I had a Swiss army knife on me at school. But I'm not stupid, I left the scissors at home, and so she dragged me into her office, searched me down and didn't find anything. She sent me back to lunch stating I had done nothing wrong, and not to worry about "Dumb immature boys". And so, I sat next to the boys, with a grin on my face. My hands were shaking with intense refrain from hitting one or two of them in the face. "I'm not stupid. You think you can get me? You're quite mistaken." I stated, the second and last time they'd ever hear my voice. That day I walked away a different person. I decided that day that I'd never take anyone's crap ever again, especially if my friends were involved. Someone wise once said, "Kill what you can, challenge everything, and vengeance is mine." and I lived by this throughout my high school career.
For a long while after this happening, no one messed with me or my friends. I suppose they thought I was riding the crazy train or maybe they got smart and decided to leave us alone. But then things got worse. There were no more high school boys to yell obscenities and throw fruits at me, but it somehow metamorphosized into something I couldn't handle. More bruises were formed, more tears were shed, more blood was spilled, but not by stupid immature boys with razorblade words, but by the person I'd never think it would be. His name: I call him Captain Douche bag. His crime: Pinning me down, wrapping his biceps around my neck, breaking my back, smacking the unspeakable, and having my mom wrapped around his lying fingers. What was she doing in this act you ask: holding my legs so I couldn't kick him in the face. And they laughed. Their alcohol stained breath was all I could breathe, since my oxygen was limited. I started to drown in my tears, but he wouldn't let go. It felt like he held on forever, like a boa around its prey, like breathing water, I couldn't catch my breath. -Kill what you can, challenge everything-
And so my eyes shut. And my hands were no longer tense. The river down my face had ended its flow. And I dream like lions, I was only a cub, with tiny teeth and claws, excited from the last kill, taking down the little lambs. And I woke, his arms still around my neck, and I screamed. I screamed, not in a horrified, sad 'this can't be happening' way, but more so I was taking my voice back. I was taking my breath back. I ripped my legs from my mother's tentacles and unstuck my back from the couch. It looked like as if I was having a seizure. I finally stood with Captain on my back, but he wouldn’t let go. I body slammed him to the floor, and a painful, gut clenching grunt came from his beak. It's like he was a vulture on my shoulder telling me my flaws, picking at my skin. But I'm not dead yet. So, I bit him back. And blood streamed down his arm as my teeth crunched into his bone. And he let me go. He finally released his grip from my neck and I launched faster than NASA shuttles. I leaped to my room, and took the longest strides I could. And I slammed my door; and slid down to the floor. Vengeance was mine; and I laughed a little to myself. I had defeated my demon. I was born to be broken, but no one was going to try to fix me. This, I believe. “Keep our voices raised, keep our knuckles bleeding.”
