Mind Over Matter

       I am ten years old. I'm blond and I don't weigh as much as I should. The thick framed, black glasses on my pale face act like a kick me sign. Freckles dot my nose and cheeks and feel like flames to which my classmate's hands become the moths.
Their hands, in turn are cold and stony. They meet with my face and create a symphony of cracking knuckles and bruising flesh. I'm only ten years old, and I am the punching bag of an entire class. This is an exaggeration, of course. But, my face would swear it's more than four or five of them.
It's Monday. The weekend provided temporary relief, and my features have healed a bit. You can almost not tell that my nose would not stop bleeding only the night before. Almost, if you look away long enough, and only steal a glance here and there. The start of a new week means we're both a little stronger than the last day we saw each other. I enter the classroom like I always do. My head is down, my eyes follow the invisible track my body is on. I know I walk in quieter than anyone else, but my stealth is ineffective. My stealth if always ineffective. In their heads I step on a pencil, or bump a desk, and earn the shame of a true fuck up. I can feel too many sets of beady eyes on my broken face. In my mind I lose traction on the linoleum floor and horrify myself before they even have to.
It's Tuesday. The bus eats my courage like a starving leech. Rows of seats taunt me, I consider standing, just to avoid motion. My pulse is heavy beneath my pathetic chest. The thin narrow hallway of the vehicle mocks my every step. I'm finally sitting. My face is finally healed. It usually takes about a week. Almost seven days to stop looking so fucked up. I sit close to the window, hugging the wall with a weak frame. I curse my father for the neighborhood we live in. I am always the last one to climb this wretched beast and take my seat. I can feel stares and impulsive judgment through my thin clothes. I curse my father for making us poor. I can hear voices and scheming play on like a horror movie in the back of the bus. In my head there is awful music that makes my veins rise from my skin. Beads of sweat form on my forehead. I am awkward and uncomfortable. I am exactly what I would harm if I had the chance to be anybody else. I hate myself before they even have to.
It's Wednesday. I know today is their day. I know every stupid mishap that occurred between Monday morning and now was recorded in some awful memory bank. Collective among all of them. A pool in which they may fish from at any given minute in my day. I know today is theirs. I still do no get out of it. I tried, long ago. I tried ditching on these days. The bus ride feels silent except for my beating heart, betraying me and giving away my fear. The walk into class is nothing close to private. Everyone who sees me knows. It doesn't take intelligence to know. Observation is easy. I can see their faces. Already I have done enough to warrant condemnation. The walk to the cafeteria is already painful. They scar me before they touch me. I bruise and bleed before they reach me. I do not make it to the door this time. Sometimes they let me touch the handle. Not today. Today, they're too angry to wait that long. I can see their beady eyes look me up and down. I can see some form of hate in their eyes. Glistening, reflecting, spitting itself back at me. Their disdain for me doesn't even come close to mine. I could teach them a thing or two about hating my guts. But I am only ten. And thinking this, I smile.
His fist hits the direct center of my nose. I feel something crack. A warm liquid is streaming down from my nostrils. I move my tongue along my top lip and keep the blood from staining my shirt. I know this doesn't matter, even as I think it a pudgy ten year old hand is clasping at my collar and pulling me towards the boy's bathroom. I know the ritual from here on out. I hear the door shut quietly, and I am shoved against a wall. Six furious fists and one tentative one take turns beating on various parts of my body. One of the boys always holds back a lot. He's the smaller of the four, and often looks like someone has already told on them. Mostly they are staying away from my face. It starts with cracking my nose, but their other targets are usually lower. My arms are already sore. The taste of metal is swimming around in my mouth. I know not to shut my eyes, so I watch as fist and shoe alternate pounding out a beat on my bones. I am breathless. They are finally finished. I still don't know why or who decides, but someone says they are not angry anymore, and they all pack up and leave. All they really do is walk out of the bathroom.
Wednesday lasts forever. Our front door squeaks annoyingly every time it is opened too slowly. My instinct is move slowly and dad always knows when I've gotten home. He knows about school. He knows and he doesn't like it. I don't know what father would. But, sometimes he yells about it. I don't know if he thinks I'm the one beating myself up and therefore need reprimanding, but he gets real heated when I come home looking like I'm the school's punching bag. Today, I wasn't getting past him. I can see more anger in him. More anger than the boys at school. They are only ten, and they do not understand an anger as possessive as my father's. I hear the door click behind me and I am shoved against a wall. A picture falls and lands around my father's feet. It is a picture of my mother and I curse my father for earning us solitude. His veins stick out on his neck like they do when I don't take care of my things. His fingers are much bigger than the boy's at school and they are rough against my neck as he holds me up. His face is bright red, and he is beginning to yell. Between profanities I can hear him say things that the kids at school never say. His eyes are still angry, but his anger holds a different target. I'm not even sure it is me. Either way, as he drops me to the ground, he lifts my face up to him and I am suddenly deaf. A white light recedes from my vision and my head is pounding. Before my sight returns, it happens again, and again. He lets my head fall forward, and lifts me from underneath my armpits. He tosses me not softly enough onto the living room floor and my side hits his recliner. He lifts me violently by my upper arm and shakes me. He throws me back to the floor and practically jumps as he thrusts his foot directly into my stomach. I cannot breathe. My eyes have swollen and I cannot see. My arm is throbbing and I cannot move. I am ten and my father is beating it into me, I'm a fuck up.
It's Thursday. I'm not going to school today. I suspect it's because my father is afraid of me being seen this way. He came into my room this morning with a cup of water and said I was skipping school. He said I ought to get dressed, and come down stairs. I'm staring at the cup of water and wondering if the pain it takes to reach over and grab it is worth it. So far, I've decided it isn't. The swelling in my eyes has gone down. I can see. I didn't sleep at all. Breathing is painful. But, I can breathe. The last kick felt like it broke me, but I think all of my bones are still intact. My head is throbbing, but I am thinking straight.
The stairs creek nosily as I walk down them. I'm underweight and nothing I do can be kept secret. My father is in the kitchen when I walk in. The table is set and I can smell something edible. Instinctively I sit and he looks at me from the stove. He says nothing, but he looks. Sizing me up, just like everyone else. I am ten.
He places a plate of food in front of me and takes the seat across from me. He stares as I begin to eat my food. My lip cracks when I open my mouth, but I keep going. Forcing food down my sore throat. He watches me until I take my last bite. He never once takes his gaze from my pathetic, waste of a figure. My father looks me in the eyes and says now I know. Now I know what I can take. He looks at me as if he's never delivered a more important message. He looks at all the bruises beginning to form on my face. He looks at the cuts his loving hands busted into my face just yesterday, and he says "Now you know how much you can handle."
It's Friday. I am still battered and hurt. Every step I take to the bus stop sends signals of pain down my spine. The third day is always worse than the second. On the way up the steps I hear voices and words and awe but I do not take note of from whom. My heart beats from the climb, but it's not betraying me anymore. It's encouraging. Telling me I'm still alive. It pounds against my sore ribs and reminds me how much I can take. I have seen a fist much bigger than the boys' at school. I have seen it meet my face in a symphony of cracking knuckles and bruising flesh. But I can still see. I am still breathing. I'm moving. I thank my father for making us brave. I take a seat at the back of the bus and smile up at my enemies.
I am ten. I am blond and I don't weigh as much as I should, but I can take you, and I will seriously fuck you up.