Silent Scars

When I was in 5th grade, I faced a lot of bullying, but one day in the gym changed something inside me forever.

I had finally gathered the courage to speak up. My heart was pounding, but I told him—told everyone—that he was mean and that I just wanted him to leave me alone. I thought maybe my voice would matter, that maybe if I stood up for myself, it would stop.

But it didn’t.

Instead, he turned to me with this look—one I’ll never forget. Before I could react, he shoved me to the ground. The impact knocked the breath out of me, and before I could even sit up, the first kick landed. Then another. And another. Each one harder than the last, each one drilling into me that I was small, weak, nothing. I wanted to fight back, to scream, but I couldn’t. I just lay there, frozen, humiliated, wondering how something so cruel could be happening to me while the world kept moving around me.

I remember the cold, hard gym floor beneath me. The muffled sounds of laughter, of footsteps, of life going on as if I wasn’t lying there, hurting. But the worst part wasn’t the pain. It wasn’t even the humiliation. It was the silence. No one stopped him. No one helped me.

That moment carved itself into my mind, a wound that never fully healed. The bruises faded, but the feeling of helplessness never did. Even now, I sometimes hear the echoes of that day, reminding me of what it felt like to be powerless, to be alone. And no matter how much time passes, I still wonder—why did no one stop him?