A Mistake
Chapter 1
They threw punches at my face and my chest. My feet staggered. I fell to the ground.
That didn't stop them from hitting me. They kept on hitting me with their fists; four ribs ached where they hit. "You are a freak. You don't deserve to be in this school," came a voice. One of my bullies muttered it as they hit me. I covered my face with my arms, blocking them from fracturing my face, though my body suffered from other pains and injuries. Everywhere hurt. It hurt so badly.
"You used to be a freak. Tomorrow I don't want to see you in this school again," one of my bullies muttered, his leg in a heavy boot kicking me in the backside. The pain passed from my flesh into my bone, sending chills—coiling, ugly, painful sensations across my body. I still lay on the floor, not moving. I waited until their voices faded.
Were they gone? Yes, they were gone. None of them were here to bully me anymore.
How long had I been on the floor? Thirty minutes. For thirty minutes I lay on the floor. Not a single person came to ask, "How are you? Are you hurt? Should I take care of you? Should we go to the school doctor for treatment?"
But nobody came. I stood up on my feet. I almost fell. A sudden chilling pain came across my leg, making me stagger. I hit the wall. I got up again, looking around the floor, searching for my notebook and my backpack. They had opened my school bag and thrown away my notes, ripping some of them. Today was my birthday. What a perfect day.
This was a normal thing in my life; it was not a surprise. It has always been like this. I found it normal. I have learned to accept stuff like this happening to a jinx like me—the mistake that came into existence in this world. Those people that bullied me... I must have done something wrong. I deserve to be beaten by them. My existence alone is a mistake. I didn't cross them. I didn't steal their lunch. I didn't ask "Mr. Smarty-pants" questions in class. I just got beaten. I deserve it. I am confused as to the specific reason, but I deeply agree that I deserve all of this.
I gritted my teeth, ignoring the thrilling pain that moved through my body. Break had ended. I went back to class. The teacher was already writing on the board.
"Mr. Idris, you came back. The break time is over and you're just coming back to class?"
"Sorry, sir, I..." I couldn't say anything else. I couldn't say that I came late because I was being beaten into pieces of meat. I was being beaten like I had no soul, like I wasn't a person. I just muttered, "Sorry."
I hadn't even sat down yet when someone threw a piece of paper at my head.
I ignored it and sat down. It was exhausting. My body was exhausted from the abuse. I buried my head on my desk. I was trying to focus on the class.
"Mr. Idris, get up!" The teacher's voice boomed in my head. I got up from my seat, standing with my shoulders straight as if nothing was wrong. "Please, sir..."
"If you want to sleep in this class, you should get out."
The teacher had already said the words. I had no reason to stay. I couldn't focus; I was too exhausted to concentrate. I took my backpack and walked out of the class. School had ended for me today.
I left the school gate. I was just a school kid walking into nowhere—walking to my favorite spot, the woods. The sky was gray. Rain was drizzling. It fell from the sky and soaked my hair, then soaked my clothes. I didn't care. I walked until I reached the woods. Tall trees stood before me. I found the tree I liked to climb. I dropped my backpack on the ground and started climbing gradually. When I was at the top, I sat down and let the rain soak me. I let it soak all of my pain, as if it could wash it all away.
I am Idris Stevenson, the son of a single mother. I am fourteen years old. I am introverted. I love creative activities—drawing and writing. I started loving these things not by choice, but because they found me in the darkness while I was alone. When the world seemed to be against me and there was no human being I could talk to, I could only express myself through this medium.
I have one person that I love very much in my heart: my mother. I love her, and I thank God for her giving birth to me. At the same time, I ask God why He let her birth me safely. I shouldn't exist. My existence caused my mother pain; I strongly believe so. My existence is the reason why my mom doesn't have a happy life and why she is so mean to me. If I hadn't existed, she could have had a much happier life and a different future, according to what she has told me.
My dad is still alive, but he's not here with us. He usually gives her money for my upkeep, as he has since I was a child. They are on good terms, but they are no longer dating. They were like childhood sweethearts; their bond was so strong, but she told me they weren't together because my grandmother—my dad's mother—was against them. She narrated to me how she had done several abortions before she birthed me. Sometimes she uses different words when she's enraged, yelling at me, "Do you think you are the only child I have birthed? Do you think you are my first? Do you know how many siblings I flushed away before you? How many children from your dad?"
Those words sting me deeply. When she tells me how many children she flushed away, I wish I had been one of them. Then she wouldn't go through this pain, and I wouldn't either. We are both suffering. My lips trembled under the rain. My eyes burned and grew watery. Tears flowed from my eyes, streaming down my cheeks. I didn't ask for this. I feel there is something wrong with me. I haven't done anything wrong to anyone, but they all seem to hate me. My life is jinxed.
Because of how I grew up, when I walk in the street, I keep my head low, scared of meeting anyone's gaze. But my act of protection is misunderstood as being disrespectful or bad-mannered. I feel out of place in this world, like I came here by mistake. When people are in a group, they have conversations, but I can't easily join in. When everyone is talking and laughing, and I try to join, the mood turns boring and gloomy. Everyone's cold gaze falls on me. It's like I am a magnet for problems and dislikes. Every day I hope to not exist. This is the life of Idris Stevenson.
I cry my heart out. I am triggered by these memories. I hadn't only lived with my mom. I once lived with my grandma in a small town. She was a sweet woman, but her words also hurt me. "Stubborn child," she called me. I was accused of things I didn't do. The more they said these things to me, the more I believed that was who I had become. I always see myself as the one at fault. My love for them doesn't decrease; I believe they are right and I am wrong.
My mom... what hardship has she not seen? The military man she married was an abuser. He beat her when she was nine months pregnant with my little sister. She fell and broke glass while pregnant. She has high blood pressure now because of all of this. I sympathize with her deeply. She left him, but I don't know why, several years later—when my sister was three and I was seven—she went back to him.
At that time, I was sent to boarding school, but now I am out, going to a normal school. I am sensitive to words. If a set of words reminds me of my childhood, I feel like grieving. I always do this in the woods. The woods are the perfect place to question my existence. I cried in that tree until the rain stopped. I climbed down slowly and picked up my backpack.
My books got all soaked from the rain. Now I had some explaining to do to my mom. I checked my wristwatch. It was exactly the time of school closing hours. I could now easily walk home as if I had just finished school and nothing had happened—like I hadn't skipped class to cry in the woods under the drizzling rain.
My home was not far from the school. It took me about thirty minutes to walk there. I live in a small town bordered by woods, filled with small houses and big mansions. So far, this environment seemed peaceful, full of nature, flying squirrels, birds, people, and their pets. Yeah, it was peaceful for everyone, but very different when it came to me. It was so different. I was secretly being bullied in school without my mom knowing; bullied for the character and personality I had grown into.
My mom was a military lady. She had a career, but when she met my stepdad, she quit her job for the marriage. I don't know why she quit. I just feel like if I didn't exist, she would have had a better life—not reeking in poverty.
I walked, counting the pebbles on the road, as cars passed by. Sadly, I turned out to be the only kid walking on his own feet. My mom loves me. She put me into the most expensive school, even though she struggled hard for every penny. These are the stories that contradict my emotions toward her; no matter how mean she is to me, I don't hate her for it. I blame myself. Why do I exist? I am the cause of our suffering. She tells me that if she didn't love me, she wouldn't give me the best of things. A few insults from her were the minimum.
