The first thing people notice about me isn't my eyes.
It isn't my smile.
It isn't even my name.
It's the scars.
Two pale scars stretch across my face like someone tried to erase me before I had even begun to exist. They aren't large, but they're impossible to hide. Whenever someone looks at me for a little too long, their eyes always drift toward them.
And sooner or later, they ask.
"Where did you get those?"
I never know how to answer.
Because I don't know.
I have had them since the day I was born.
Some people say the doctors made a mistake during delivery.
Others whisper that it was simply bad luck.
Whatever happened, I entered this world already marked.
With scars.
With questions.
With no answers.
The doctors apologized.
They made excuses.
They called it a complication.
None of those words mattered.
Not after what happened.
My mother never came home.
She died on February 29th.
One day after I was born.
I never heard her voice.
Never felt her embrace.
Never knew what it was like to be loved by the woman who gave me life.
Sometimes I wonder if she ever held me.
Even once.
Sometimes I wonder if she smiled when she looked at me.
Or if she even had the chance.
Those thoughts haunt me more than the scars ever could.
Then there was my father.
Or rather...
the absence of him.
I never met him.
Never saw his face.
Never found a photograph tucked away in an old box.
Nothing.
Aruka once told me that my father hated having his picture taken.
"He thought photographs were pointless," she said. "He said memories should live inside people, not on paper."
Maybe that sounded poetic.
Maybe it even suited him.
But to me...
it was cruel.
Because memories only exist for people who were actually there.
I wasn't.
He loved writing.
Apparently, words came easier to him than conversations.
He filled notebook after notebook.
Letters.
Thoughts.
Stories.
Dreams.
Then one day...
he threw them all away.
Every last page.
Gone.
Sometimes I imagine opening an old drawer and finding just one folded letter.
One page.
One sentence.
Even something as simple as—
"To my son."
That would have been enough.
Enough to know I existed in his heart.
Enough to know I wasn't forgotten before I had the chance to remember him.
Instead...
I have nothing.
Not a letter.
Not a keepsake.
Not even his handwriting.
Nothing.
I watch other people laughing with their fathers.
Playing football.
Fishing.
Arguing over stupid things before laughing five minutes later.
I don't envy their money.
I don't envy their houses.
I envy those moments.
The ordinary moments.
The ones everyone else seems to take for granted.
Sometimes...
I wonder if my father would have smiled at me.
Would he have taught me something?
Would he have been proud?
Or...
would he have looked at me and seen only the reason my mother was gone?
Maybe that's why he disappeared.
Maybe every time he looked at me...
he saw the day he lost everything.
Maybe he hated me.
The thought digs deeper than any scar ever could.
It hurts.
Even if I know I'll never know the truth.
And maybe that's the worst part.
Questions never stop hurting.
Answers do.
...
"..."
A hundred and forty-seven pairs of eyes.
Every single one of them was staring at me.
Some curious.
Some confused.
Some amused.
Too many.
Way too many.
My chest tightened.
The walls seemed closer than they had been a second ago.
The air felt heavier.
I couldn't breathe.
My heartbeat pounded inside my ears so loudly that every other sound faded into nothing.
No.
No, no, no...
Not this.
Not here.
Not now.
Before I even realized what I was doing—
I ran.
I shoved past people without looking.
Someone shouted after me.
Someone laughed.
Someone cursed.
I didn't care.
The hallway blurred around me.
White walls.
Gray floor.
Lockers.
Doors.
Everything melted together as my legs carried me farther and farther away.
Just keep running.
Don't stop.
Don't look back.
My lungs burned.
My vision blurred.
Then—
BANG!
Pain exploded through my face.
The floor slammed into me.
For a second everything went black.
"...Ah..."
A dull ache spread across my forehead.
My nose throbbed.
Something warm slid over my lips.
I reached up with shaking fingers.
Blood.
Of course.
Blood.
A weak laugh escaped my mouth.
"Perfect..."
Then—
Someone giggled.
Soft.
Mocking.
Familiar.
No...
Please...
Not him.
I knew that laugh.
I'd know it anywhere.
Timur.
Timur Kajchick.
The boy who gave me my nickname.
The boy who made sure nobody ever used my real name again.
From here, you could make Timur's entrance even more intimidating by slowing it down...
showing his footsteps, the silence before he speaks, and the protagonist's body reacting before the reader even hears his voice. That kind of pacing often makes bullying scenes much more tense than jumping straight into insults.
The hallway fell silent.
Not because everyone had stopped talking.
But because my ears had.
The world narrowed until only one sound remained.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Measured.
Confident.
Each one echoed against the polished floor like a countdown.
No...
Please...
Not him.
The footsteps stopped only a few feet away from me.
I didn't have to look.
I already knew.
I knew that laugh.
I knew those footsteps.
I knew the feeling crawling up my spine.
"Well, well..."
A voice, smooth as polished glass.
"...Look what we have here."
My body froze.
Every muscle locked in place.
My fingers tightened against the floor, smearing a streak of blood where my hand rested.
A shadow stretched across the tiles.
Then another.
Then another.
I slowly lifted my head.
Timur Kajchick.
Standing in front of me with that same infuriating grin.
Behind him stood Tohal and Benow, each wearing expressions that made my stomach twist.
They weren't smiling because something was funny.
They were smiling because I was.
Or rather...
because I was about to become their entertainment.
Timur tilted his head.
"Oh?"
His eyes drifted toward the blood beneath my nose.
"You already started the show without us?"
The three of them laughed.
Not loudly.
Not wildly.
Just enough to let me know they were enjoying themselves.
I tried to stand.
My knees trembled.
Bad idea.
The room swayed, forcing me back down onto one hand.
Timur chuckled.
"A clown who can't even stand."
He crouched until we were eye level.
I could smell the mint on his breath.
"You know..." he whispered, "...you're making this way too easy."
I said nothing.
Not because I didn't want to.
Because I couldn't.
Every word seemed trapped somewhere between my lungs and my throat.
Timur clicked his tongue.
"Nothing?"
"No witty comeback?"
"No joke?"
"I thought clowns were supposed to make people laugh."
His grin widened.
Tohal snorted.
Benow folded his arms, watching like someone waiting for a performance to begin.
My heartbeat grew louder.
Move.
Just move.
Stand up.
Push him away.
Do something.
Anything.
Instead...
I remained exactly where I was.
Motionless.
Coward.
The word echoed inside my skull.
Timur noticed.
He always noticed.
He reached forward without warning.
His fingers closed around a fistful of my hair.
Pain shot across my scalp.
"Ah—!"
Before I could react, my head jerked backward.
My neck screamed in protest.
I clenched my jaw so hard it hurt.
"There he is."
Timur smiled.
"I was wondering when I'd hear a sound."
He pulled harder.
My eyes watered instantly.
I hated that.
I hated giving him even that much satisfaction.
"You always walk around like you're better than everyone."
Another yank.
"But look at you."
Another.
"You're pathetic."
My breathing became uneven.
"You're disgusting."
Another pull.
"You make me sick."
My vision blurred.
The pain wasn't unbearable.
It was the helplessness.
Knowing I couldn't stop him.
Knowing everyone walking past could see this.
Knowing nobody would interfere.
Timur leaned closer until our foreheads were almost touching.
Something inside me cracked.
No.
Don't listen.
"You murdered her."
No.
"You should've died instead."
Stop.
"You hear me?"
His grip tightened.
"You should've been the one in the coffin."
Every word landed harder than his hands ever could.
I wanted to scream.
To tell him he was wrong.
To tell him he knew nothing.
To tell him—
Anything.
But my voice betrayed me.
Again.
Coward.
Coward.
Coward.
"You know what's even funnier?" Timur continued.
"I bet your father couldn't even stand looking at you."
My heart stopped.
"I mean..."
He shrugged.
"I wouldn't either."
Laughter erupted behind him.
Tohal almost doubled over.
Benow slapped Timur's shoulder, shaking his head in amusement.
Every laugh dug deeper beneath my skin.
I bit the inside of my cheek.
Hard.
The metallic taste of blood spread across my tongue.
Good.
Pain I chose.
That was easier.
Timur released my hair.
For one tiny moment...
I thought it was over.
I should've known better.
It was never over.
Not with him.
Never.
He stepped back.
"Guys."
Without taking his eyes off me, he stretched out one hand.
Tohal grinned knowingly and tossed him a half-full water bottle.
Timur caught it effortlessly.
He rolled it between his palms.
Slowly.
Almost thoughtfully.
"You know what I think?"
No answer.
"I think our clown looks a little... dirty."
Benow laughed.
"I agree."
Timur twisted the cap.
The plastic cracked softly.
Such a tiny sound.
Yet somehow...
it terrified me more than his shouting ever had.
He raised the bottle.
Cold water splashed across my hair.
My face.
My shoulders.
It soaked through my clothes in seconds.
The cold stole my breath.
The hallway erupted in laughter.
I stared at the floor.
Water dripped from my bangs.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
No...
Not just water.
A dark red drop struck the tile.
Plop.
Another.
Plop.
Blood from my nose mixed with the water, spreading into thin crimson streams that crawled across the floor.
For a second...
I couldn't tell which drops were blood...
and which were tears.
"Aw..."
Timur crouched again.
"What's wrong?"
His voice dripped with fake sympathy.
"Is the little clown crying?"
The words hit harder than the water.
Crying?
No.
I wasn't...
...was I?
I blinked.
A warm tear slipped down my cheek.
Another followed.
"No..."
I whispered.
"No..."
Please.
Not again.
Not in front of them.
Anything but this.
Timur burst into laughter.
"There it is!"
"I knew it!"
"Our little clown always cries!"
The others joined in.
Their laughter echoed through the hallway until it felt like the walls themselves were mocking me.
I shut my eyes.
I wanted the floor to swallow me.
I wanted to disappear.
To vanish.
To wake up somewhere else.
Anywhere else.
Instead...
I cried.
Silent tears.
Hot tears.
The kind you try to stop but can't.
Each one felt like another betrayal.
I hated crying.
Not because tears were weak.
Because mine always came at the worst possible moment.
When I needed courage...
they came instead.
When I needed anger...
they came instead.
When I needed words...
they came instead.
Coward.
The voice returned.
Louder than ever.
You're pathetic.
You're useless.
You'll never fight back.
You'll always kneel.
You'll always lose.
I squeezed my eyes shut until they hurt.
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to swing my fists.
I wanted to prove that voice wrong.
But my body refused.
It only shook.
And somewhere beyond the laughter...
I heard footsteps.
Not theirs.
Someone else's.
Steady.
Approaching.
Closer.
Closer.
The laughter faltered.
Someone had entered the hallway.