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'Bonjour class!' my french prof said in her breezy, girlish voice. 'Bonjour Madame'  we all replied, just like every other morning. It wasn't this that I was paying attention to the dismal introductions to the class however, my attention was focused on somebody else in the room, and it certainly wasn't ever my teacher. There was a boy who sat beside me in that class who I couldn't take my mind off of. I'm sure that most people would assume that when I say this, I mean that I had taken fancy to him, but in reality it was nothing like that at all. Quite the contrary actually, I hated him.

Every morning I would go into class and sit in my assigned seat next to the wall and stack my books up in the corner of my desk, then I'd doodle on the edges of my binder waiting for him to come in and dreading it more and more with each moment. When he did, he would walk in with a sauntering gait, greasy, overgrown blong hair swinging as he came over to where I sat. He would drop his books on the desk beside me and laugh as I cringed away from him, still trying to focus on what I was drawing. He'd repeat my name in a taunting tone and begin to poke me until I looked up at him. When I did, he'd wiggle his eyebrows at me  and ask if I'd missed him. As usual I'd come up with some sort of snarky way of saying no and go back to trying to ignore him. I should have learned that this would never work but I never did, he'd always respond with saying "oooh, fiesty" and laughing. I was so mortified by this that I'd always turn beet red from humiliation. He didn't stop there though, continuing by poking and punching me so hard that I had bruises. This didn't hurt me as much as it probably should have though, in fact, the physical part of his abuse was minor compared to what I'd experienced in the past. The thing that hurt most was the sexual side of what he did. You see, when I turned red from the humiliation he would interperate it as my 'feeling for him'. He would make comments like 'oh you know that you love me too...say that you love me...say it' or the like. The worst of his comments came with touches and the comments were so vulgar that I can never repeat them, even on paper. I remember when he touched me that I would cringe and wrap my arms around my sides in defence (I'd used the same tactic in elementary school when I'd gotten beaten up every day, I still do this now when I'm upset) but it wouldn't make it stop of course, he'd just grab my wrists and pry my hands away from my body, holding them so tight that they bruised and my hands would go cold from lack of blood. I'd try and break free but it never worked, not even biting him worked. There was one day when he got more physical than usual, he not only grabbed my wrists but pinned me against the wall as well with his massive bulk. I pushed and hit him until I broke my wrists free and then picked up my textbook and hit him with it but he still wouldn't let go. My french teacher yelled at me and lectured me in french until I almost broke down crying, but she soon left the class. The moment she left it started again and this time I slashed at his arms with a pen. He swore and let me go and I looked down to see the pen lines on his hairy shin red around the edges, not bleeding, just scratched and irritated. I still feel guilty for hurting somebody, even him and even though it couldn't have really hurt him much. Somehow though part of me thinks that he deserved it.

There was one other incident that hurt particularly, the girl who'd bullied me in elementary school was bragging about how much she'd hurt me and her the guy who'd been abusing me the whole semester decided to have a contest to see who could punch me hardest. So I sat there in a class full of people feeling the blows that each of them delivered grow harder and harder unable to even move. You might be wondering why nobody stopped them, but I don't. Nobody really cared enough about the girl who they hated anyways to tell them to stop, they never told him too either even though what he was doing was so obvious. The french prof never said anything either, and I know she saw most of it, and heard even more. In a class with thirty other people, nobody thought to say stop. Not that entire semester.

The End

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