"BUT NAMES WILL NEVER HURT ME" (The Pain is Gone): A Short Story

“Ow! That hurts! Stop it! Stop it!“

“Aw, shut up ya big baby. They’re only little teeny rocks. Quit your damn whining!”

And with that admonition the burly bully continued hurling handfuls of stones at the younger, much smaller boy, who was helpless to stop him and could not outrun him.

Hours later, long after the painful assault had finally ended, the boy sat all by himself at the edge of the bed in his room at home. He had managed to slip by his parents so they couldn’t see the horde of bruises, welts and cuts marring his slight 14-year-old body,

He managed to keep his crying to a low whimper, covering his face with a pillow if the sobs became too loud. He knew that eventually he would have to face his mom and dad. But what would he tell them this time? Falling off my bike or clumsily tripping on the curb may have worked before. But this time there were so many more visible indications of injury that those previous fictitious stories just were not going to fly. He had to come up with something far more grand. More spectacular. Something that would feasibly explain such egregious bodily damage.

As the boy struggled to concoct what would need to be his biggest, most convincing story ever, a knock came at his upstairs bedroom door.

It was the boy’s mother. The greatest mother in the world. He often wondered how he got to be so lucky to be her only kid..

“Honey? Are you all right in there?”

The boy cleared his throat. Then he took a deep breath and exhaled. And in a voice he fought to keep from breaking, replied, “Yeah, mom. I’m fine. Just chillin’ in here...studying and stuff.”

“Oh, good.. Well, it’s almost time for dinner. About five minutes, OK?”

“Yeah, OK. I’ll be down.”

“Great, sweetie. We’re having your favorite. Breaded pork chops and twice-baked potatoes.”

“Awesome. ‘K. I’ll be right there.”

He listened to the sound of his mother’s footsteps as she walked down the hallway and continued down the stairs.

Then he drew another deep breath and released it from his lungs, ever so slowly this time. He stood up and made his way to the adjoining bathroom to splash his flushed face with handfuls of cool water at the sink.

As he patted dry his face with his Spiderman towel, he finally determined what he would tell his folks made so much of his skin look so ugly.

He rehearsed his fantasy out loud:

“So today I was racing with Zach on our skateboards down at the park, on that long and windey sidewalk that runs all the way through it, ya know? And like we’re really haulin’. I mean like flames were shooting out from our back wheels we were rollin’ so super fast. And then, like outta nowhere, this squirrel runs right in front of us. Zach, he swerves and misses him. But I like ram right into the little dude goin’ full blast. And I just go flying right straight forward. Face first right into the sidewalk, man. And then I roll really hard into one of those gravel rock borders they have next to the sidewalk, ya know, and I just skin and cut myself all up. So that’s why I look like such a dang mess now. It doesn’t really hurt, though. Not all that much, anyway. Just looks kinna gnarly, I guess, huh?”

Yep. That was it. That’s what he would tell them. And, man, he hoped beyond hope that they’d buy it. For he just can’t let his parents know that that damn bully was abusing him again. Because he’d find out he ratted on him for sure. And he’d really let him have it then. Way worse then today’s pummeling. And he didn’t even want to know what insidious brand of torture that might mean.

As he walked down the hallway to the top of the stairs, he paused, once again breathing deeply in and out. He was trying to steady himself, to center himself, so that his imaginary tale may sound as credible as possible to his mom and dad.

He was running out of excuses, out of lies, to offer his parents and expect the deception to ring true. Soon their ever-growing suspicions would lead to a pressing interrogation and an inevitable confession. It was just a matter of time. And that time only grew shorter with every assault of merciless bullying. He could only pray now that the impending moment of truth would not come tonight. That his folks would buy into just one more fabricated fable. Just one more.

“Please” Jimmy whispered under his breath as he began to descend the stairs to take his seat at the dinner table. “Buy what I’m selling this one more time, you guys. Please.”

And mom and dad did buy it. Again. Though not nearly so wholeheartedly this time. And he knew it. He also knew that he needed to do something. Something drastic. And he had been contemplating something drastic for weeks now. So he made a decision.

Tomorrow would be the day. At long last. Yes. Tomorrow will finally be the day that something enormously drastic happens. The boy could not postpone it any longer.

The day began just like any other day.

He woke up, though the night was a restless one and provided little sleep. He took a shower, brushed his teeth and got dressed. He went downstairs and eagerly devoured another of mom’s home cooked breakfasts. Waffles with a generous sprinkling of cinnamon on top.

Then he gave his beloved mother a kiss on the cheek goodbye, checked his coat pocket one more time and headed for the bus stop on the corner of his street.

However, this is where things would change. Dramatically. And forever.

You see, this time, when the vicious bully confronted him, and shoved him, and knocked the books out of his arms and challenged him to “fight, ya little wuss!”, this time he was ready to retaliate. With what he had in his coat pocket. With what he’d lifted from his father’s top right dresser drawer, hidden beneath the socks.

And he would fire once. Twice. Three times. Each rapid-fire discharge lodging deep into the bully’s legs. So as not to end his life. Only to end his brutality.

And there was screaming. And crying. And mass hysteria.

Soon there would be sirens. And television crews. And questions. So many questions.

But for now, he was focused only on the tortured shrieks of the fallen bully in the midst of all the chaos and havoc.

“What the hell are you doing?! You little prick! You psycho! You frickin’ freak! What the hell is wrong with you?!!”

But the boy only stood there. Motionless. And stoic. His “equalizer” still gripped in his steady right hand, but resting at his side now. He clicked the “safety” to the on position. Just as his dad had taught him to do each time he completed his practice round at the firing range.

And the names and the hatred continued to spew in shock waves from the boy’s wounded and bleeding attacker.

And as they did, an overwhelming notion took hold of him. And although, strangely, he felt almost nothing in this moment, there was one absent sensation in particular that struck him above all else.

Pain. There was none. None at all. Not anymore. And that was all that he really wanted, after all. For the pain to stop. And it had.

And it was OK.

Because the names would never hurt him. Not now.

Not ever.