The Bully (Part 2)

I still don't know how, to this day, after all the pain they inflicted on me then, that not one bruise turned up on my body. There wasn't anything to prove Pauline and her gang guilty. And what's more, I already hated my secondary school after the first long day. My mother had said, "Don't worry, tomorrow will be better. The first day is always the worst."

If only I could have told her exactly what happened that day, but I couldn't. I feared my mum going straight to the head teacher, and getting Pauline and her gang so angry that they would make my life a misery. So I didn't tell her, and over the next few months suffered at the hands of Pauline and her gang. They showed no sign of relenting. I was trapped.

Some days they would beat me up, leaving me there in the road, or on the path, or in the alley. Other days they would taunt me, tease me, humiliate me, and crowd me. One time they poured urine over my head at the beginning of school, so I smelt the whole day, and my hair was matted with the stuff, and I hid in the toilets all of break time, and was even sick because of the smell. I was a laughing stock, every day. I had no friends yet. The closest I got to a friendly look was a sympathetic one, because I looked such a state every day, and because I was constantly miserable.

I lived in fear, hiding in the toilets at break and lunch, and sometimes staying behind after school later to avoid them. But they still found me. They discovered where I lived, and would lie in wait for me in the mornings when I walked to school, and when I came home again.

One day, on coming home from school, they weren't there. I went inside, relieved, and dropped my things on the floor in the landing. Mum came in.

"There's a letter for you, Charlotte," she said. "Funny, but there's no postmark. It must have been delivered by hand." My mum gave it to me, smiled, and left.

I looked at it suspiciously, and ripped open the envelope.

You Can Run, But You Can't Hide.

It said, the letters cut from a magazine. There was no point really. It was obvious who it was. Pauline. Or maybe it was one of her sidekicks. I wasn't hundred per cent sure. I stuck it back in its envelope, and ran upstairs into my room. I flung myself on my bed, and cried. I sat up, and punched my pillow, hard. With each punch, I imagined a different member of Pauline's gang's face printed on the pillow. First Pauline, then that smarmy git in the yellow Adidas trainers, then Pauline, then that girl with the braces, then Pauline... I picked up the pillow, and slammed it against the door, against the wall, against everything I could see. I stopped short by the window. I saw a movement in the bushes in my garden. Adidas trainers stuck out the bottom.

They were there. They were watching me. They were watching me cry and scream, and throw my pillow around the room. They were tormenting me even in my own house. I wasn't safe anywhere. I drew the curtains, and only succeeded in blocking the physical picture out. The picture in my head sharpened. I saw every detail on their jeering faces. The faces were coming for me, heading my way. Abstract mental pictures flooded my mind. Eyes with blue eye-shadow on, with eye liner; noses; mouths, open and yelling, closed and sneering, mouths with lipstick on; ears with multiple piercings; Adidas trainers. Everything that reminded me of Pauline and her gang, hiding in the bush, around corners, in alleyways, ready to pounce.

I felt like one of those cartoon characters in the dark dark forests, and it could tell it was being watched, because their eyes all glowed out of the darkness, surrounding it. Like the cartoon character, I was trapped. There was no where to turn, I was surrounded from every direction. All I could do was stand around and await my doom, as I did every day.

I sank down on my bed, pillow still in hand, and bowed over, and cried for Britain. Why were they still making me pay for the one mistake I made? Why were they tormenting me? Had I really done something that bad? At that moment in time, I wanted nothing more than to curl up and die. To escape the daily torture, to leave behind everyone who made me feel how I did. To make them pay.

I staggered to the bathroom, and took some toilet roll, and wiped my eyes. It didn't do much good, because the tears were still pouring down my face, blinding me. I wished I could run away, then and there, but I couldn't, because Mum was downstairs, and she would stop me. Also, Pauline and her gang were outside waiting for me, waiting to torment me, and follow me.

The more I thought about them, the more I cried, and the more sick I felt with life.

My stomach heaved, and I rushed across the room to the toilet, and lifted the seat just in time. It felt as though all my troubles were going as my stomach contents threw themselves out of my mouth. I'd never liked being sick. It was always really horrible, and left a horrid taste in my mouth for ages afterwards. For once, however, throwing up soothed me, in a way that seemed impossible before.

As I brushed my teeth, to get rid of the smell, I felt slightly better, and I went downstairs, and made myself a sandwich.

It amazed me how much I ate over the next few days, over the weekend. For breakfast, I would insist that Mum made me fried eggs, fried sausages, bacon, beans, tomatoes, toast, and anything else that I felt like. Mum was amazed at my increased appetite, as over the last few months, I had eaten less and less. She had tried over and over to get me to eat, and tried to get me to the doctor. When I started eating again, she was delighted, and stopped worrying all at once. She didn't know, however, that I was throwing it all up after the meal in order to stop worrying about Pauline and her gang.

It seemed as though they waited outside in the bushes day and night. When I was alone in my room, I would hear a noise outside, and see the bush moving, ever so slightly, and I would draw the curtains tightly, and start crying. Then I would get a couple of bags of crisps from under my bed, and eat them. Then some chocolate, and anything else I had stashed away under my bed.

Then I would go into the bathroom, and make myself sick.

I would make myself sick about five times a day after eating almost to excess. At school, I still worried about Pauline, but when I disappeared off to the toilets at break and lunchtime, and sometimes during lessons, they went too, temporarily. It was a relief to be rid of Pauline and her gang for a few hours each day. They were constantly there, but not when I was gorging myself, or throwing up. Just like people get away from things by reading, or going for walks, I got away from things by throwing up.

I didn't do it because of my weight. I never liked my body much, but I always thought, 'Hey, everyone doesn't like certain parts of their body. I may be a bit fat, but so what? I fit into my clothes alright!'

I was surprised a few weeks later to find that some jeans that had always fitted me snugly, almost tightly, were now a couple of centimetres slack. I was losing weight!

I was also surprised at how good it felt, and I began wondering what it would be like to wear a size 14 instead of a size 16. I'd never really minded how much I weighed, even though I knew it was quite a lot. But suddenly, it was really important. I went into the bathroom, and stepped onto the scales.

"Twelve stone?" I said. "God, I'm an elephant!"

I knew that throwing up made you lose weight, so I carried on doing it. In fact, I made sure that nothing was left in my stomach at the end of the session by drinking water in between throws. It was my marker, that when I threw up water, my stomach was empty. I started to throw up seven times a day, and then eight, and within two weeks, I was throwing up ten times a day. I wanted to lose the weight. I wanted to forget Pauline.

One day at school, I was sitting in my maths lesson, my hair covering my face as I tried to get my head around graphs and charts. Someone came into the room, and gave a piece of paper to Mrs. Thompson. The girl with the piece of paper left the room, and headed down the corridor. Mrs. Thompson looked up, and said, "Charlotte?"

My head jerked up immediately.

"Mr. Wallace wants to see you in his office now please. Pack your bag, and take your things with you."

Immediately, the whole class starts muttering, and shouting comments like, "What have you done now, Charlotte?" I packed my bag quickly, and left the room. What had I done? Was I in trouble? I walked quickly down the corridor to my head of year's office. My heart was beating, and I felt like throwing up. It would have been a relief, but there was no time. I knocked on the door, and his voice came through the door, permitting me to enter.

I pushed the door open, and stepped in. "Charlotte Webbster? Please come in and close the door behind you."

I obeyed him, and sat down in front of the desk where he indicated, and looked down at the floor. I didn't want to see his stern expression as he stared into my eyes, intimidating me.

"Your standard of work is slipping, Charlotte." he said, coming straight to the point. "I have been informed by your previous school that you are very bright, and from the beginning of the year, your work is becoming poorer and poorer. Do you have anything to say on the subject?"

I looked up, expecting a stern angry face, almost a cartoon face of an evil character. Instead, his face was friendly, and his eyes were warm and welcoming. I burst into tears, not knowing why I was doing it. I wanted so much to stop Pauline bullying me, and tormenting me every day, yet I couldn't. She and her gang were on constant look out, and there was nothing I could do to stop them. Before I knew it, I was blurting out all of it, saying how on the very first day I was bullied, and every day since, it's been so hard not to go home in tears. "It's Pauline Wayne." I said, before I could stop them coming out. I burst into yet more tears, knowing I'd given the game away, and that now Pauline and the gang would come after me more than ever. I was petrified.

Mr. Wallace handed me a tissue, and I wiped my eyes, and blew my nose, and held out my hand for another one. I felt sick all over again, and this time I could feel it bubbling away in my stomach. "Please excuse me," I said, and rushed out of the room, along the corridor, and into the toilet. Throwing up, my stomach felt better, and I drank water from the fountain, to check that my stomach was empty.

I came out to find Mr. Wallace waiting outside for me. He had my bag, and he gave it to me.

"Charlotte, go home. I've contacted your mother, and don't worry. Everything's going to be sorted out."

I walked out of school with a sick heart.

Walking home, I realised that no-one yet knew that I was making myself sick. I was losing more and more weight. In the matter of a few weeks, I had lost over a stone of weight. I weighed 10 stone 10 ounces. It didn't stop there, though. 10 stone 10 ounces was still too much. My clothes were almost falling off of me, and I had begged Mum to buy me some new clothes in the size smaller.

The next day at school, I saw Pauline at school, and I walked past, holding my breath. She grabbed at my uniform, and yanked me over to her, causing me to fall over and ladder my tights.

"You haven't heard the last of me, squealer." she hissed in my ear. "I'll see you tonight. Enjoy your day!" Her mouth was twisted in a cruel smile. She pushed me on my way, I stumbled and fell over again. A laugh raised from the crowd around us. I nearly died. I thought things would be made worse instead of better. I wished I could get out of school early. No such luck.

After my lunch, two rounds of sandwiches, two packets of crisps, a piece of chocolate cake, and three chocolate bars, I crept into the toilet, and rammed my fingers down my throat as usual. When I was finished, I breathed a sigh of relief, and stood up from the toilet bowl, turned around, and walked straight into Pauline. Her face was pale.

"Why were you making yourself sick?" she asked, in a tone I had never heard her use before. True concern.

"I wasn't." I said shortly. "I must have had too much to eat today."

"So you've been eating too much several times a day, every day?" she retorted.

I gasped. "Have you been spying on me?"

"No," she said, turning away.

I gathered all my courage up into a package, and put out a hand and turned Pauline around by the shoulders.

"Not only have you been bullying me, but you've been spying on me as well!"

Pauline's face crumpled up. She looked like a lost kitten in the rain, without her mob behind her.

"Charlotte," she began, her eyes begging my forgiveness. "You don't understand. I have a reputation to upkeep. Everyone expects me to be the hard girl."

"Me? I don't understand?" I retorted, anger growing up inside me. Pauline shrank away as though I'd slapped her in the face. "You picked on me since day one. Everyone respects you. Me, I'm respected by no one. No one likes me, I'm a loner. All because of you. You, Miss. Popular with all your friends around you day and night, thinking what fun it would be to torment Charlotte Webbster day and night, bully her, drive her almost to insanity. You know what I think about you, Pauline Wayne? You are a bully. You are a self centred bully, and I hate you." I slapped her in the face, and walked out of the toilets.

Pauline, her face red with my fingermarks all over her cheek, came out, yanked me around by my shoulder, and delivered such a blow to my stomach, I fell to my knees and spewed up liquid all over the floor. Then, as I lay in a daze, everything went a blinding white, and I lay my head back onto the floor as I slowly lost consciousness.

Part 3 of The Bully

Back to the stories page.