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My tiny hands formed the outer wall of the little edifice that I constructed out of dirt and rocks. The knee-length white tube socks with the broad, light blue stripes that hugged my calves also gathered dirt on them, but I didn’t care. My navy shorts with the zipper pockets and key ring also gathered smudges. Mom would scold me for them, but I dismissed those concerns. The small castle I built for Ellen Davis and her favorite Barbie, Sandra Dee, needed my undivided attention. She knelt a few feet away, watching me.
“It’s beautiful, Ronnie.”
My heart swelled with pride as I looked away from my work for a split second to see her. The picture on her Care Bears T-shirt matched her pink shorts, and her dirty blonde hair ran down her back in a long, mesmerizing ponytail, pulled up by a matching pink scrunchie.
“Sandra Dee likes her new castle very much.”
Ellen held out her Barbie and moved the arms to animate Sandra Dee’s expressions of gratitude.
I smiled and laughed, returning my attention to my creation, but a blur of parachute pant leg and checkered Vans shoe flew in front of my face. It connected with my masterpiece, scattering it all over the sidewalk.
The chortling laughter of Jimmy Griffin mixed with a howling chorus of several other boys - his loyal gang. It pounded my ears as I stared at the broken pile of my creation.
“Aww, look, guys. I think Stroker is going to cry.”
Jimmy grabbed the Barbie from Ellen, and puppet’d the doll, narrating his own scornful version of Sandra Dee’s last lines.
“It looks so pretty, Ronnie. I can’t wait to live in it.”
He stomped on the pieces.
“Oh, shit! That meanie came up and destroyed your stupid house.”
Jimmy pointed at Ellen with her Barbie.
“Why you want to play with a loser like Stroker, anyway?”
He glared at her as he grabbed the arm of the Barbie and pulled until it separated from its body.
She screamed and started crying as she ran inside. My blood boiled as I got up off the ground and faced Billy.
“Hey, what’s the big idea?”
His eyes grew wide, and he bent over, putting a hand to his stomach as he laughed.
I planted my feet and folded my tiny arms, glaring at him.
His voice shifted from mocking laughter as his tone lowered, and he growled through gritted teeth.
“Look at the tiny hero. Stroker thinks he’s tough.”
His hands exploded into the joints between my chest and shoulders, sending me backward like a rag doll and jolting my neck forward. I hit the ground hard, smacking my head against the dirt with a thud. Billy sat on my chest and arms, and his body weight squeezed the air out of my lungs. I winced as the Barbie doll connected with my cheeks and forehead several times. The hard plastic against my skin left a sharp sting. Billy followed with harder, blunt blows, using his fists to pummel my face. My head pounded, and I saw stars.
“How’s that feel, tough guy?!”
Unable to defend myself, my arms pinned, I could only lay and take the flurry of more blows than I could count. When Billy got off my chest, I gasped for air. He jeered at me.
“I’m Ron Stroker, and I play with girls because I’m a sissy just like them.”
Billy delivered one last, powerful kick to my ribs, sending a burning pain from my side into my stomach.
“You’re a pussy, Stroker, and you always will be!”
I lay on the ground with my eyes closed and waited, listening for the sound of their laughter to fade away.
I think I’m bleeding. Everywhere.
After laying and listening to silence for several minutes, I forced myself up and limped towards my house. Hot tears ran down my cheeks. Somehow, I made my way to my bedroom and into my bed, where I curled up like an infant, sucked my thumb, and cried. I heard a knock at my bedroom door.
“Hey, buddy.”
The sound of Dad’s voice brought slight comfort mixed with frustration.
Where were you when Billy beat me half to death?
“Listen, Ron, I saw what happened.”
I frowned, still not looking at him, and choked words out through my broken voice.
“Then why didn’t you stop them, Dad?”
“Because I know my son. You’re a Stroker.”
The words puzzled me, and I turned to face him with furrowed eyebrows.
He chuckled.
“Listen, kiddo, you will not understand this now, but maybe one day, you’ll remember it when you need to.”
He scooted closer to me on the bed and pointed his finger at my forehead.
“The only voice that really matters is in here.”
His fingertip pressed into my flesh. It stung on the skin that still burned from Billy’s beating.
“What punks like that kid say doesn’t matter. What they think doesn’t matter. What your little girlfriend, Ellen, thinks also doesn’t matter.”
My frown grew more pronounced. He smiled and continued.
“Even what your mom and I think doesn’t matter in the long run, Ron. None of it does. The only thing that really matters is what you think about yourself in here.”
His fingertip tapped on the swooning spot on my forehead.
“And you’re in control of that.”
He got up and walked over to the window, looking out towards the sidewalk where Billy thrashed me in front of his friends. And Ellen Davis.
“I imagine it wasn’t his fists that hurt the most.”
My dad sighed.
“It’s always the words. When the bruises heal, the words stay.”
Dad turned his head from the window and looked at me.
“You know, Ron, you’ve taken a lot of beatings in your short life. But you’ve always recovered. Always gotten back up. It’s like you’re unbreakable or something.”
He walked back over to the bed and sat down beside me.
“You just gotta get a handle on what’s in here.”
He put his hand on my head and stroked my hair.
“Nothing they do or say can hurt you if you do that. You have all the power, son.”
He patted me on the shoulder, got up, and left, closing the door behind him.
“CLANK!”
The door to the jail cell shut behind me, shaking me out of my reminiscent trance. Dingy concrete floors and walls sweat from poor climate control, and the smell of body odor and hopelessness filled my nostrils. A single streetlight shone through a small, frosted window, casting a cold, unnatural light into the cell. My shoulders hung like they struggled to suspend my lifeless boulders for arms.
Well, this sucks.
