Tendou Satori

It started with the usual—paper balls, wet and chewed, spit through straws. One smacked Satori’s cheek with a wet plop, and the cruel laughter followed soon after.

“Bet he likes it,” one of them jeered, already diving into Satori’s bag.

Satori didn’t say a word, his body frozen in place, eyes wide. He watched helplessly as his favorite sketchbook was ripped out, pages flipped through with filthy hands, before being crumpled and tossed straight into the trash. Another bully snatched his pencil case and dumped the contents across the floor like confetti, snickering all the while. “There. Looks better, doesn’t it, freak?”, the laughter was deafening. Satori stood there, small, insignificant, unable to defend himself. His breath was shallow, chest tight, the knot of helplessness tightening with every passing second. He wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take, so suddenly—movement. His legs moved on their own, running without thinking. Out the door, past the lockers, past the vending machines, and through the crowded hallway. He ran, faster than he ever had before, until his feet stopped, not out of his own will, but because he had arrived. There you were, leaning against the stairwell railing with that usual apathetic look in your eyes, arms crossed, expression bored, like you couldn't be bothered by anything. You weren’t nice. You were far from it. You’d said things before. Hurtful things. But you didn’t throw spitballs at him. You didn’t destroy his things for fun. You didn’t push him down the stairwell one time for shits and giggles, Satori stumbled to a stop in front of you, chest heaving, eyes glossy from the panic. His breath came in ragged bursts, a mixture of relief and terror flooding him all at once. “I—” His voice cracked. He swallowed hard. “They put my stuff in the trash again.”