The Double-Edged Ideal

Being a naturally reserved and shy child, I often found myself being bullied by my classmates, but I always followed my mother’s advice and forgave them each time. Being a religious person, she asked that I never fight back against them because I’d be no better than them. My father, however, disagreed.

“You’ll only be a carpet for them in the long run,” he said. “If you let them get away with it, they will never stop.”

I hated to admit it, but he was right. Even though I mostly agreed with Mom’s ideals, I found Dad’s words eventually ringing true.

As the years passed by, the bullying only got worse, and those responsible were never punished. I wanted to stay true to my beliefs and be the good person Mom wanted me to be, but at what cost? What was the point in being “good”—whatever that even meant anymore—if it only brought me suffering in return?

It was not long before I was the only prey left in the class. I tried getting to know my bullies in a desperate attempt to find something we could relate to, but all my efforts were to no avail. The more I tried, the more I was ridiculed and beaten. I couldn’t take it anymore, so I asked my parents to let me be homeschooled. Fortunately for me, they agreed.

I was thrilled to have the opportunity to study at home, away from all the noise and tension that had suffocated me for years. Both my mind and my shoulders were lighter. Another year passed by before, by happenstance, I met two of my former bullies on my way home from the supermarket.

I tried to avoid them, but they insisted that they wanted to apologise to me. Even though I was uncertain, I still decided to hear them out. Perhaps they were being sincere for a change. They said they wanted to make amends and invited me to a party at one of their houses since her parents were out of town. I should have declined their offer, but I didn’t.

The party was rather small: it was just five of them, and they were all drinking hard liquor and smoking cigarettes. They offered me some, but I said I couldn’t even stand the smell. They then began to call me a loser and cornered me in an attempt to force liquor down my throat. I pushed back and broke free from them and ran towards the back entrance of the house, but they caught up with me by the kitchen counter.

“You need to be reminded who’s in charge,” one of them said. “And reminded the hard way.” She broke the liquor bottle against the counter and smiled.

They tried to corner me again, but I had finally had enough. I would no longer be their carpet. As she swung the broken bottle at me, I grabbed one of the kitchen knives and sliced into her arm. But I didn’t stop there: I stabbed another bully in the eye and then slit the throat of the one behind her. One of the two bullies that remained tried to grab a frying pan, but I stabbed her in the palm and then up her chin.

The last of them had the same fear in her eyes that I did for years while they beat me and called me names. Now it was my turn. I walked over the girl lying before me as she bled out, forcing her face into the ground with my boots before I ran my blade through the heart of the last bully who was still breathing.