The boy gets tripped the next day.
I watched him fall again.
The fall disorients him.
It's terrifying to see him so still.

He gets up quickly this time.
He's shaken and scared, isn't he?
The boy glares at his attackers slightly swaying.
He doesn't show his pain.

The other kids start to speak.
Oh God, why would they say that?
The boy stiffens.
I can't watch this anymore.
The boy's eyes are hurt and he never responds.
I'm going now.
I'm gone.

The boy tries to pick up his books,
but they keep escaping his grasp.
The books are being kicked,
and ripped apart.
He loved those books.
He loved his work.
But they were being destroyed,
piece by piece.

He manages to pick them up
and leave this mess.
But the words follow him,
down the halls
and into his classroom.
Everything is being destroyed,
himself included.
He sits in his seat,
in pain.

I saw him pass me in the halls,
I couldn't help it,
I followed him.
He walked into my classroom,
I didn't even know we shared this class.
I saw him sit in his seat,
I walked by him to get to my own.
I saw his eyes,
and it pained me to see,
that he is just as haunted
as I used to be

**** he's in pain
*...But it's the start of someone else's pain all over again.