Christine

Word Count (without title): 615

The Knife

I knew instinctively this was the day they would charge me again. With a dry throat, I watched them from the shallow depth of the schoolyard at PS 130. My predators screamed and scored hoops.
“You will turn into a jellyfish,” my mother groused every time I asked for water. “Why are you always thirsty?” She had this look on her face, as if I already were a jellyfish.
If I were a deep see jellyfish, I would become invisible to my tormentors, I reasoned wondering how much of me was visible in this shaded corner. I looked down at my pale freckled arms sticking out of the oversized black shirt, the only light spot in the dark cloud around me.
“Eat and grow, but avoid being eaten,” my father had said matter-of-factly and helped me construct a wooden toy knife, as if he knew they called me “Pee-Peter”.
Ten more minutes and I had to surface in front of the other 5th graders in class. My stomach tightened. I had to pee but blocked the urge. Escape would fail. The never-ceasing cycle of ignorance and humiliation had been going on for months. Kai had started with “Pee-Peter” which had inspired “Pee-Baby” or the more generic “Pisser”. They wrote the names on the board, on my books, all over me. Trying to erase them was like pouring gasoline over a flame: more insults, more snickering. Even Adam, my long-time best friend, afraid of being bullied himself, now slapped hands with iron Kai. To see them band made me squirm.
“Hey Peee--, gotta pee?”
I startled. Kai had leaned in close to my ear. I felt his breath on my neck. My fingers tightened around the smooth edges of the folded knife in my pocket.
“Leave him alone before he wets himself,” Adam snarled.
“Ooh,” Kai screeched, “I think he did already.” He sniffed as if following a trace down to my crotch, “Eeooh.” He laughed at me flagging his square teeth, like a trap left ajar. I relied on the pointy tip of my knife. I took it out, unfolded the blade. Kai moved back an inch. The snickering halted. There was a buzzing sound in my ear and a shaking that did not stop.
“Take it easy,” Adam said with a still, small voice. It was the shift toward friendliness that sent me over the edge.
“You shut up,” I roared. “Who are you? A fake. A nothing.”
My face broke out in flames. I thrust my fist forward into Adam’s chest right above the heart. Later on they would say, I could have killed him, even though I could not. But the wooden blade entered Adam’s body by one inch. His high-pitched scream reached the principal’s office and made five teachers whoosh across toward him.
Nobody paid attention to me. I had sunk to the ground like a lost gym bag, with urine running down my legs. Nobody at first noticed I was unconscious.
The closest hospital was The New York Downtown Hospital. We got to ride on a stretcher. They gave me a can of soda and taped down Adam’s bleeding. Then we waited in the triage line for what seemed like forever. I felt beaten but happy to spend the time with Adam alone.
“Severe hypoglycemia,” the doctor said upon inspecting me, “With a risk of damage to the brain, if untreated.”
Both of us were released the same day. They made me apologize to Adam, but he was the one who felt sorry. Suspension was lifted when they found out I had diabetes. How could anybody have known? All they knew was that I was different and peed too often.