Bully
Will forever remain the bully of present?
This is about the day I went to the kindergarten and sis was already there and then the bully threatened to hit her to which she put up her bitter shield and then he went good on his threat right in front of me and I wanted so bad to be tough and I wanted to protect my sis avenge her sevenfold but I did nothing and let things unfold as they did I don’t remember what exactly happened next but I remember feeling ashamed of my petty self of the hollowness of my love of the weakness I had assumed of the powerlessness I felt I shared none with nobody–few words, few words! I deserved this I deserved this constant continuous bottling up of sharp negative shards of feeling this harlequin orgy of resentment and pity and disgrace and vacuous intents and pent-up drama and etc. etc. you know how it feels to be forever on the cusp of a sneeze that would solve everything held up in the shackles of that moment where the world lifted you by your knees and turned you upside down and everybody laughed ruthlessly at your diffident weenie until you pissed and they had to let you go not to be tainted by your potion what had got you so messed up so isolated such a sweet chubby freckled boy you were so squeezable but something happens and the narrative takes on drastic twists and turns and you find yourself abhorred by the rough-hewn miniature of that moment preserved with such vehemence and then you strip strip strip off the layers one by one by one and sometimes wholesale but no matter how many pieces you drag off there’s one more left so you ask yourself is there an uncontaminated essence or will forever remain the bully of present?
The room is dark on volition. No light is allowed in, and no light allowed out. We need remain silent lest the villain awakes. Sweet dreams are made of bullies. The night’s already here, and so am I.
A man can live by accident, and die by accident. Or can he not? Is every man’s life subject to pure accident, is it only the race, the genus, the species, that has a universal reference? Or is it this not true, is there no such thing as pure accident? Has everything that happens a universal significance? Has it?
—Women in Love, D.H. Lawrence
You write like a virtuoso, Mahdi, with little that words of praise can do for your writing. It took me back to time when my brother was bullied, but no matter how hard I tried I couldn't protect him. And I still remember that day like daylight. And it still gnaws at me.
It seems like the bully almost becomes secondary. The real wound is the memory of not being the person you wanted to be in that moment. Most people have a version of this story buried somewhere. I know I do. The details change, but the shame remains strangely durable.