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Piggy

Alex Patterson

    It was another day, another class, another bell, and another taunt. This was the world I live in, the world all kids live in. My name is Piggy; this is what I am called. It was what my despicable peers call me and it is what my teachers call me; therefore it is my name. I, however, do not call myself Piggy. I call myself Mark. I call myself this because it was my name before Piggy, it was my name before this year, before I knew them and before they saw me. This is my story, but it is also the story of others like me. I know that I am not the only one being picked on and called names. I am not the only one to hide from the barrage of spitballs and hornets, but I was alone in my story. My story began like any other; my story began with a girl.
    Her name was Veronica, she sat three desks ahead of me, two to the right and she would lean back just enough that the small beam of light that gently filtered in through the window would gracefully form a small halo around her long black hair. It was Science, third period, minutes before the bell would ring to let us out for lunch. I was sitting in the back of class, in an effort to avoid being noticed, and I was looking out of the window, I was dreaming of an escape. The bell rang releasing us from the classroom. We flocked into the cafeteria, eagerly awaiting the food that we had been promised. I walked to the tables, scanning the unfriendly environment for a place to sit. Then she spotted me, well... I spotted Veronica, but she waved me over and so I went. I approached the table nervously, she invited me! I couldn’t believe it, but it was true. She could be a friend, she could be someone to talk to – who knows, she may even be someone that would date me. I was foolish. I still believed in the kindness—no, that’s too optimistic—I still believed in the decency of humanity. I was at the table. “H-Hi Veronica,” I stuttered. She smiled at me and all I could see was her and me, a table and a chair that I could sit in. She gestured at the chair. This was it—I began to sit down.
    I was laughed out of the cafeteria. It was a simple prank and it was something that I should have seen coming. Veronica was the decoy; the other kids were waiting for me to sit down. They pushed the chair out from under me when I began to sit. I had fallen for—The popular kid talks to you then pushes you so that you trip over another popular kid—before, but this was the first time that it had happened at lunch with a chair. The rest of the day slowly crawled by. I was laughed at and mocked throughout the day. Then I reached English. Looking back on it I miss the pranks and physical abuse, it was better than what would come: Piggy. That was my new name as designated by my English class on November 7, 2013. I can remember the day, I can remember the minute, the second; I can remember it all because this was the day that Hell began for me. We were reading Lord of the Flies. It was a good book; I had read it on my own the year before. I liked it then, but I liked English then. Back then English was fun, back then English was an escape, it was a way out from the world and its abuse; back then I could escape into the life of Kerbouchard, I could run away with Holden Caulfield, and I could experience Marlow’s adventures. But that was then. And this is now. And now was a different time; now was an unfriendly place that tried to drain the life from me at every corner and at every waking second. Now was a monstrous being of incomprehensible might and awe, and now was winning. I would sit in the back of classes hoping to not be noticed, I would sit in the corner of the cafeteria, I would skip lunch entirely on some days in a desperate attempt to avoid the contiguous presence of now. I was alone in the present, I was alone in the now and I could not see a future free from the suffocating grip of now.
    It was a few days later that she came, her name was... I can’t recall what it was. She came a long time ago; her message though, her message is what I remember about her. She came to speak about bullying. She, a beautiful five-foot-eleven part time model with a loving husband and kid came in to talk to us about the bullies of the world. Her message was plain and pious. “Sticks and stones may break my bones” She rhymed. “But harsh words will never harm me.” This was the thing that stuck with me; of course the words would hurt me. The words are what hurt the worst. Beating would leave bruises, but those would fade in time. Piggy, Spaz, dork, these were the scars that never healed. I can remember all of the names, and I could remember all of the insults. She continued her message, “I would like to ask everyone. Has anyone here been bullied?” I could’ve raised my hand, I could have blown the whistle, but I could not. I could not bring attention to myself, I could not risk another name, I could not risk another beating. I could not trust this woman to help me; I could not trust the teachers to protect me from the barrage of insults and projectiles. I had gone to them before, their response was this model. This was the height of their power to protect me from the constant abuse. Their response was a beautiful woman who would rhyme “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but harsh words will never harm me.” I could not believe in this lie. The beatings would fade, but the words would stay etched into my heart until the day I die, they would remain there until today, the day that I decided to end them.
    But now was not content to stay as it was. It slowly adapted as those around me learned new words of torment. Just as dork had given way to Piggy, Piggy would be brought down by another taunt. After a month, Piggy no longer seemed an apt name for me. I was still Piggy, but this word was now reserved for mercy – no, now I became a faggot. Fag was scrawled across notes and hurled at me in math, notes of damnation were stuffed into my bag and books when my back was turned, and then the day came when my mother discovered one of these notes. She cried that day, not for the note and not for the pain which I had endured. She wept because of who I was; because I was someone she didn’t want me to be. Now the truth of who I was became clear to me. I was an outsider: separated from the world by my personality, by my appearances, and by my desires.
    I set down my pen. I was in my room. It was a simple room of plain walls and a plain bed. There was a window overlooking the open countryside in the corner of my room. I was at my desk. It was a simple wooden plank stretched across four metal legs. I looked down at my finished letter. It was a simple act. It was a simple act of escape; it was the easiest way out, and it was the hardest way out. I had the rope tied, and I was ready to end it; I was ready for my torment to end. I stood on my desk and placed my neck through the noose. I took one last look around, the window. I should see the world for one last time; I should feel the breeze one last time. I pulled my head back and stepped down from the desk. I walked slowly towards the window, slowly lengthening my time. I reached the window and pulled the sill down. The breeze felt cool on my skin... I could run away. I hadn’t considered that before. I could run away to another town, to another life. I could run away towards acceptance, for there had to be acceptance in the world, it is a rather large world after all. There had to be a better life, there is a better life for people like me. I took one last look around the room, one last look at the shambles of my life, and I began my new one.

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