A school bag against a wall,
paint peeling at the edges, grass growing
upwards, clinging to life
between the cracks of the pavement.
A hand on the school bag
clenched around the handle,
fingers pressed together,
curled, and the nails press into the heel of the palm.
They leave dark little crescents.
A boy;
he curls tighter against the wall,
a shadow throws itself over the bruise on his chin.
The boy pulls his school bag towards him,
rests his bruise on it. His fingers grasp
at the worn weave of it.
Eyes close, wrinkle shut.
Obscure all other senses,
so hearing is the sharpest.
Not yet, not yet. No footsteps yet.
Breath shudders, suppressed
from flaring nostrils.
Barely escapes from his lungs,
that are squished against all his other organs,
in that winding space of a box
compressing all of his organs.
No footsteps, no footsteps yet.
Breathe, breathe.
Footsteps.
Laughter, slinking around the corner,
ahead of the approaching group.
It plunges into the taught space of his ears.
Echoes there.
Thumps against his skull.
Footsteps.
A school bag, pressed tight against a boy,
who wraps his person around it,
begs it to be a shield.
A hand, curling into a fist.
Footsteps.
A boy,
and three others.
Three grin,
one does not.
He can't see their teeth, his eyes are stuck tight.
"Look at this pathetic ****."
A slap of sole on pavement.
A boy stepping forward,
body harsh.
A flinch.
A laugh.
"******* hell, I can't even be bothered."
Footsteps.
A high, quiet sob.
Fingers on a schoolbag, loosen.
