The bell rang, its shrill tone slicing through the classroom, signaling the end of the day. For most, it was a release, a call to freedom, to home, to whatever waited beyond the school's walls.
But for the boy, it was a summons to a different ritual, one he couldn't escape. He gathered his things slowly, his movements deliberate, as if delaying the inevitable might somehow change it.
His classmates streamed out, their voices loud with plans and laughter, while he lingered, zipping his bag with trembling fingers. The rooftop was waiting, as it always was—a stupid, humiliating routine where he'd face the bullies again, offer his silent surrender, and hope they'd tire of him quickly.
There was no other path; defiance wasn't an option, and running only made them chase harder.
He slipped through the crowded hallways, keeping to the edges, his head down to avoid drawing attention. The school was alive with noise—lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, voices overlapping in a chaotic symphony.
He moved like a shadow, dodging groups of kids who didn't notice him, their lives untouched by the dread that coiled in his chest. The stairwell to the rooftop was at the far end of the building, tucked behind a rusted door that creaked when opened.
He climbed the steps slowly, each one heavier than the last, his heart pounding as he neared the top. The bullies would be there, waiting, their smirks already forming in his mind.
The rooftop was a barren expanse of cracked concrete, littered with cigarette butts and faded graffiti. The wind was sharper up here, cutting through his thin jacket, and the sky was a heavy gray, promising rain.
He stepped out, his sneakers scuffing against the ground, and there they were—three of them, leaning against the low wall, their postures casual but predatory. Their leader, a tall boy named Derek, grinned when he saw him, his eyes glinting with the kind of cruelty that thrived on routine.
The other two, Kyle and Matt, flanked him, their laughter low and mean. The boy stopped a few feet away, his bag clutched to his chest, already bracing for what came next.
"Why do you even bother showing up?"
Derek said, his voice lazy, almost bored, as he pushed off the wall and stepped closer.
"You know how this goes."
The boy didn't answer—there was no point. Words only gave them more to twist, more to mock. He stood still, eyes fixed on the ground, willing himself to disappear. Kyle snorted, kicking a loose pebble that skittered across the roof.
"Look at him," he said, his tone dripping with disgust. "Like a kicked dog. Pathetic."
Matt laughed, a sharp bark that made the boy flinch, his shoulders hunching further.
It wasn't the words that hurt most, though they stung. It was the ritual of it, the way it played out the same every time. Derek would circle him, tossing insults like darts, while Kyle and Matt chimed in, their voices overlapping, building the pressure until it felt like the air itself was crushing him.
He'd stand there, silent, waiting for the first shove, the first hit, knowing it was coming and powerless to stop it. Today was no different. Derek stepped closer, his shadow falling over the boy, and gave him a hard push to the shoulder.
"Say something, loser," he taunted. "Or you just gonna stand there like a mute?"
The boy stumbled but caught himself, his bag slipping to the ground. He didn't look up, didn't speak. He knew better. Silence was his only defense, thin as it was. The wind picked up, carrying the distant sound of cars, and for a moment, he wished he could dissolve into it, become part of the air and drift away.
But Derek's hand was on him again, shoving harder this time, and the boy's knees buckled as he hit the ground, the concrete cold against his palms. "Get up," Derek said, his voice sharp now, the boredom gone. "We're not done."
Fighting back wasn't an option, never had been. The boy's body was a map of his limitations—scrawny arms, narrow shoulders, ribs visible under his skin from too many missed meals.
Derek was a head taller, broad from hours at the gym, his fists heavy with the confidence of someone who'd never known hunger. Kyle and Matt were no different, their bodies solid, fed by full fridges and carefree lives.
The boy had seen what happened to kids who fought back—bloody noses, black eyes, weeks of pain. He wasn't strong enough, wasn't brave enough. The thought of raising a fist made his stomach lurch, fear rooting him to the spot.
He'd always been timid, ever since he could remember. As a child, he'd hidden behind his mother's legs when strangers spoke to him, his voice barely a whisper when forced to answer.
School had only made it worse. The first time he'd been cornered, in fifth grade, he'd frozen, his body refusing to move as the older kids laughed and pushed him down.
That fear had grown with him, sinking deep into his bones, shaping him into someone who flinched at loud voices, who shrank from raised hands. He hated it, hated himself for it, but it was who he was—cowardly, easily frightened, always running from conflict.
Even now, as Derek grabbed his collar and yanked him to his feet, the boy's heart raced with that same paralyzing fear. He could feel his pulse in his throat, his breath shallow and ragged.
"You're such a waste," Derek said, his face close, his breath hot and sour. "Why do you even exist?"
The words cut deeper than the shove that followed, sending the boy staggering back. Kyle laughed, mimicking the stumble, while Matt tossed a pebble at him, the small stone stinging as it hit his cheek.
The boy's hands shook, but he kept them at his sides, knowing any movement might invite worse.
He'd tried to be brave once, years ago. He'd been smaller then, even more fragile, but he'd thought maybe standing up would make them stop. It hadn't. The memory was vivid—fists raining down, laughter ringing in his ears, the taste of blood in his mouth.
Afterward, he'd curled up in the bathroom, crying until he couldn't anymore, promising himself he'd never try again. That promise had held, reinforced by every bruise, every taunt. Courage was for other people, people with strength, with lives that didn't break them down day after day.
Derek shoved him again, harder, and the boy's back hit the wall, the rough concrete scraping through his jacket.
"You're boring me," Derek said, cracking his knuckles. "At least make this fun."
The boy's eyes darted to the side, searching for an escape that wasn't there. The rooftop was a trap, enclosed by the low wall and the locked door behind him. He could hear his own breathing, loud and uneven, drowning out the wind.
Kyle stepped forward, grabbing the boy's bag from the ground and tossing it over the edge. It landed with a thud somewhere below, and the boy's chest tightened—his notebook, his pencil, the few things he owned, gone.
"Oops," Kyle said, grinning.
Matt laughed again, the sound grating, and Derek shook his head, like a disappointed teacher.
"You're gonna go get that, right?" he said, his tone mocking. "Or you too scared to climb down?"
The boy didn't answer, his throat too tight to speak. He wanted to scream, to tell them to leave him alone, but the words stayed locked inside, trapped by years of fear. Instead, he stood there, waiting, his body tense for the next hit.
It came, a sharp jab to his stomach that made him double over, gasping. Derek stepped back, satisfied, and the others followed, their laughter echoing as they headed for the door.
"See you tomorrow."
Derek called over his shoulder, his voice casual, as if this was just another day at work. The boy stayed against the wall, his breath hitching, waiting until the door slammed shut before he let himself slide to the ground.
His stomach ached, his cheek stung, and his bag was somewhere below, but he was alive, and they were gone. For now.
He sat there for a long time, the wind cooling the sweat on his face, until he was sure they wouldn't come back. Slowly, he stood, his legs shaky, and made his way to the edge of the roof. His bag lay in the dirt below, its contents spilled across the ground.
He'd have to climb down the fire escape to get it, a task that felt monumental in his current state. Every muscle hurt, every movement a reminder of what had just happened. He started down the rusted ladder, his hands gripping the cold metal, his mind numb except for the dull throb of pain.
The walk home was a blur of aching steps and lowered eyes. The streets were busy with kids heading home, their voices bright with the freedom of the afternoon.
He kept to the quieter paths, avoiding the main roads where he might run into someone else looking for trouble. His body hurt all over—his stomach, his arms, the fresh bruise forming on his cheek.
The bag, retrieved from the dirt, hung heavy on his shoulder, its strap digging into his skin. He felt small, smaller than usual, like the world was pressing down on him, trying to erase him entirely.
Then, something caught his eye—a narrow hallway off the main street, tucked between two shops. It wasn't a place he'd noticed before, but today, it glowed with a soft light, drawing him in.
As he got closer, he saw it was a small arcade, its walls lined with posters and shelves packed with games. Not just any games—role-playing games, their covers vibrant with images of warriors, dragons, and sprawling fantasy worlds.
His steps slowed, his pain momentarily forgotten, as he stared through the glass door, his breath catching. It was like stumbling into a treasure vault, a beacon in the gray monotony of his life.
He pushed the door open, the bell above jingling softly, and stepped inside. The air smelled of old paper and plastic, a comforting mix that made his chest ache in a different way.
The shelves were crammed with RPGs—some new, their boxes glossy and unopened, others used, their corners worn from love. He recognized a few titles from the library's computers, games he'd played until the screen flickered and died.
Final Fantasy, Dragon Quest, Baldur's Gate—names that were more real to him than his own sometimes. He moved closer, his fingers brushing a box, the artwork of a knight in glowing armor staring back at him.
The shop was quiet, save for the hum of a fan in the corner and the occasional murmur from a clerk at the counter. The boy didn't look at him, too caught up in the games.
He picked up a used copy of an RPG he'd never seen before, its title promising a world of magic and adventure. The description on the back spoke of epic quests, of heroes rising against impossible odds, of choices that shaped destinies.
He read it twice, his heart pounding, imagining himself as that hero, strong and fearless, not the boy who'd just been shoved against a wall.
Games were his light, his only light. In their worlds, he wasn't weak or invisible. He was a mage casting spells that lit up the sky, a warrior facing down monsters with a blade that never faltered.
The real world was dark, full of pain and hunger and people who saw him as less than nothing, but in the games, he belonged. He could be someone who mattered, someone whose story had meaning.
Standing there, surrounded by shelves of possibility, he felt a lump in his throat, his eyes stinging with tears he didn't want to let fall.
He thought about the hours he'd spent in those worlds, the way they made him feel alive. At the library, he'd lose track of time, his fingers flying over the keyboard as he explored dungeons and fought battles.
Even the old console he'd borrowed once had felt like a lifeline, its controller worn smooth from his grip. Those moments were his rebellion against the world that hurt him, his proof that he could be more than what everyone saw. He clutched the game box tighter, wishing he had the money to buy it, knowing he didn't.
The clerk glanced over, his expression neutral, and the boy quickly put the game back, his cheeks flushing. He couldn't afford it—not today, not ever. His mother's paycheck barely covered rent and food, and even that was a stretch.
But just being here, surrounded by these worlds, was enough for now. He moved down the aisle, his eyes drinking in every cover, every title, committing them to memory. Each one was a promise, a reminder that there was more out there, even if he could only reach it in his mind.
He lingered until the clerk started stacking boxes, a subtle hint that it was time to go. The boy stepped back outside, the cold air hitting him like a slap, his bruises aching anew. The games stayed with him, though, their images vivid in his mind as he trudged home.
They were his anchor, his hope, the one thing that kept him from sinking completely. He wiped his eyes, the tears cold against his skin, and kept walking, the weight of the day heavy but not quite unbearable. Not yet.