Bullied and Broken

That’s how I measured time—not in days or periods, but in visits. I’d been in that office more times than I could remember. The excuses varied: a fall, a nosebleed, twisted fingers, sometimes a busted lip. The nurse never asked too many questions. Just a gentle smile and the same soft tone: “You’re back again, Eli. What happened this time?”

“I tripped,” I’d whisper.

It was always easier to lie.

My name is Eli. I’m in the eighth grade. I don’t talk much. That’s not some quirky trait. It’s survival. The less you say, the less attention you draw. I wore the same gray hoodie every day, kept my head down, moved quietly. I became a shadow in my own life.

Jake, Tyler, and Marcus didn’t like shadows. They liked noise, reactions, pain. I became their favorite target sometime around sixth grade. I never really knew why. Maybe because I was quiet. Maybe because I didn’t fight back. Maybe because it made them feel big to make someone else feel small.

It started with name-calling. Mute freak. Rat. Ghost boy. Then came the shoves in the hallway, the “accidental” elbow to my ribs, the lunch tray flipped into my lap. One time, they locked me in a janitor’s closet and turned the lights off. I screamed until my throat went raw. No one ever came.

What hurt worse than the bruises was the silence. Teachers saw, and looked away. Friends—I used to have a few—started sitting at different tables. Not because they didn’t care, but because they didn’t want to be next.

I started skipping lunch. I’d hide in the library bathroom with the door locked, eating crackers from my backpack. It was quiet. Safe. No one could laugh at me there.

My mom asked me once if everything was okay. I told her I was just tired from studying. She smiled, kissed my forehead, and told me how proud she was. I almost told her the truth. Almost.

Then one Thursday afternoon, something changed.

Mr. Grant, the janitor, knocked on the stall door. I was sitting on the toilet seat, knees hugged to my chest, silently crying.

“You alright, kid?” he asked, his voice low, kind.

I didn’t answer.

He didn’t press me. Just slid a tissue under the door and said, “You don’t have to carry this by yourself, son.”

That broke me.

I followed him out and told him everything—about the beatings, the names, the hiding. He didn’t look shocked. He just listened, nodded, and walked me straight to the school counselor.

The next few days were a blur of meetings, reports, and finally, consequences. Jake, Tyler, and Marcus were suspended. There were whispers in the hallways, looks of surprise from classmates who never knew—or pretended not to know—what was happening.

But the bruises didn’t disappear overnight. Neither did the fear.

I’m in high school now. Still quiet. Still healing. The scars on my body faded faster than the ones in my mind. I don’t hide in bathrooms anymore. I don’t count ceiling tiles. I sit in the cafeteria, usually alone—but not always.

Last week, I saw a sixth grader sitting by himself, his lunch untouched, his eyes glued to the floor. I recognized that look.

So I sat beside him.

I didn’t say much. Just opened my juice box and gave him a half-smile.

Because no one sat with me.

And no one should ever have to carry silence alone.