Bullying

"Thank you..." Freddy raised his head and looked at me, his blue-green eyes growing brighter, like ice cubes lit by sunlight in a mint drink in summer.

Just then, a man's rough shouting suddenly came from the yard next door, heavily nasal and slurred.

"Freddy, you little bastard, where have you run off to? Get your ass back here..."

Freddy seemed frightened. He stood up at once, even knocking over the plate in front of him in his haste.

"Sorry... but I have to go. My... my... father is looking for me."

Before he could even say goodbye, he ran to the railing in his thin-soled slippers like a nimble squirrel, then darted over it and ran off with a patter of footsteps.

Over the past few days, I had also learned a little about this child's background. Whether I asked the neighbors, the community staff, or the police, the answer was always that it wasn't their business or there was nothing they could do. Really, the most important thing was that they didn't want to get involved.

After all, someone like Edward was a huge headache for anyone who got involved with him, leaving Freddy a child nobody would take responsibility for.

In those days, fathers disciplining their children was commonplace. Who could say for sure? All Mr. Edward had to do was muddy the waters, throw in a few threats, act shameless, and finally offer a way to back down, and it became impossible to define whether this was abuse or discipline. There wasn't much I could do either, but first... I at least had to buy him a pair of winter shoes.

But I wasn't the only one who couldn't sleep. Freddy curled up beneath his blanket. It was so warm tonight. Was it because he had eaten his fill? And he had only been slapped once today. Perhaps he wouldn't have to go to bed hungry at night anymore. He tucked his whole body into the tattered blanket, yet his thoughts were on those black eyes. Actually, he preferred blue.

Early the next morning, I went to the store. The store here sold a bit of everything, including basic clothing and the like. Following the shopkeeper's recommendation, I bought a size 13 pair, along with a thick coat warm enough to keep out the cold.

That evening, someone did indeed knock on my door. I opened it to find the child crouched on the ground, his face deathly pale and covered in beads of sweat, his other hand clamped tightly over his stomach, his lips pressed together and the rims of his eyes red.

I immediately helped him inside and had him lie down on the sofa.

"What's wrong? Does your stomach hurt?"

He gave a small nod. "Yes."

He said quietly, "After I ate yesterday, my stomach started hurting that night. I drank hot water, but it still hurt."

Seeing him sweating with pain, his lips turning blue, I doubted a little rest would make him better. I immediately called 911, and the ambulance soon arrived. The emergency nurse asked whether anyone would accompany him. I glanced at the rather desolate yard next door, gritted my teeth, and got in myself.

And so an older child brought a younger child to the community hospital. After examining him, the doctor put him on an IV and asked me sternly, "Why didn't you bring this child to the hospital sooner for his gastroenteritis? Where are your parents?"

I couldn't blame the doctor for asking so many questions. After all, one look at this child made it clear that he had been beaten and had gone hungry for a long time.

It wasn't until a nurse who also lived in Elm Grove Town whispered a few words into the doctor's ear that a complicated expression crossed his face. But he knew that in a situation like this, asking too many questions would only make things worse.

I hadn't noticed any of this. Right then, I was frantically thinking, What should I say? Should I say that, counting this time, I've only met him twice, and that his father is my next-door neighbor? If you call his father here, he'll most likely drag him from the ward to the hospital entrance without paying a cent, then beat him up again.

So I could only nod haphazardly and brush the matter aside. In any case, I had the money to pay.

The doctor told me that going without food for long periods had left the lining of his digestive tract fragile and his digestive enzyme production insufficient. Eating greasy food on top of that had caused indigestion, resulting in acute gastroenteritis.

He told me that once these two bottles of IV fluid were finished, he would prescribe some medicine, and Freddy would be fine after going home and getting some sleep.

So it had been that barbecue after all. I rubbed my face. It was my fault, so I ought to bear some responsibility for his stomachache too. I paid, collected the medicine, and returned to the treatment room where he was receiving his IV. I ought to take care of him.

He had only slept for a little while. Now he was awake, huddled beneath the spacious bedding, staring at me with those round mint-green eyes like a kitten.

Of course, Freddy had heard my conversation with the doctor. He understood that he had gastroenteritis because of indigestion, not because the boy in front of him had drugged him. About three and a half hours earlier, he had still been thinking about how to get revenge on him. Should he secretly smash his windows at night, or scatter broken glass all over his doorstep?

The night he went home, his stomach had started hurting, and he had vomited and had diarrhea. That night, he had intended to tough it out-he had gotten through it that way before, after all-and then take vicious revenge. But it hurt so badly that he had almost thought he was going to die.

But, for some reason, when he looked through his window and saw that other window still lit so late at night, small as a firefly's glow, he understood that the light had been left on for him. He was, after all, only an eight-year-old child.

Whether it was the will to live or something else, this eight-year-old child dragged his body, barely able to move from the pain, over to tentatively knock on that back door.

At the time, he had thought that even if the boy cursed him, mocked him, or hit him, he wouldn't take revenge anymore. He would let it go this time and count it as payment for that dinner.

But none of that had happened. This boy, only a few years older than him, had helped him onto the sofa, touched his face, comforted him, and called 911 for him.

He had wanted to stop him then. He knew children had no money. Even if they went to the hospital, the doctor would only call his father. The best outcome might be that his father would grudgingly pay under other people's stares, cursing all the while, and then he might get beaten for days after they went home. His father had recently gotten a new belt, and being whipped with it hurt terribly.

But none of that had happened. Everything that night was completely different from anything he had experienced before. He looked at the boy with admiration. How was he so capable?

I took a taxi home with him and cooked him some oatmeal. After he finished eating, I asked if he wanted to stay at my place.

He shook his head and said his father would beat him if he didn't see him the next morning. Then his lips trembled a couple of times. After a moment of silence, he said, "How much did it cost? I'll earn money and pay you back."

What a good child, I marveled, but I still shook my head. "You don't have to pay. It was my fault. I didn't know it would make your stomach hurt. Children shouldn't worry about these things." I poked his forehead.

You don't look that much older than me, Freddy thought.

I brought him the shoes and thick coat I had bought for him that day. He put them on with some wonder, then looked at me again with tear-filled eyes. I wasn't good at handling this, so I simply told him to go home and rest early.

For the first time, Freddy realized his feet could be this warm. Even his steps seemed a little lighter. When he got home, he heard thunderous snoring. He picked up a liquor bottle and placed it on the first step, praying that the man would step on it tomorrow and fall to his death.

Then he returned to his room, put the shoes and coat on top of the cabinet, and lay down on his blanket.

He felt as though today had been a dream. He liked dreaming. Only in his dreams did he feel that he was truly alive in this world.

Over the next month, a figure appeared in my backyard almost every evening, just after dark, and knocked softly on my door. Then I would prepare food for him. I couldn't make anything fancy: oatmeal, fried eggs, bacon, or boiled vegetables and potatoes with a little salt. But to Freddy, these were already very good.

Soon, school started for me, and I also happened to learn that Freddy went to the same school. I was in sixth grade, and he was in second. But really, there was only one elementary school in this community. If you didn't want to attend it, fine-get up more than forty minutes earlier every day and drive into town.

The teacher introduced the new student. Good-looking people were always popular, and as soon as class ended, I was surrounded so tightly that there was no getting through.

Everyone chattered to me, and I responded with a smile. Most people here knew one another, and whether deliberately or not, they had heard something about my situation from their parents.

"You live alone? Aren't you scared at night?"

"Then can you eat lots of cookies and cake?"

"Does that mean no one nags you to brush your teeth at night?"

"And no matter how late you play, there aren't any parents telling you to stop?"

Around dismissal time, I headed home with a few children who lived nearby.

I suddenly spotted several figures. A taller, chubbier child with freckles was bullying a scrawny little boy. An older girl stood beside them. She looked a little like the chubby boy, as though she were his older sister, and stood there timidly, seeming to want to stop him but not daring to.

I stopped, pushed past my classmates, and hurried over. Reaching out, I grabbed the freckled boy's wrist where he was clutching Freddy's collar. A little pressure forced him to let go.

The freckled boy turned to glare at me, swearing. I didn't respond to his words, only pulled Freddy a little farther behind me and said in a low voice, "Stay away from him."

I was older than him, after all, and with our classmates watching around us, the chubby boy who had been so aggressive just moments earlier merely stiffened his neck and spat out a threat before running off with his followers. The girl hesitated, then hurried after them.

I looked down at Freddy. His cuff had been tugged back, exposing a thin, pale wrist, and there was a small red mark on his chin. Yet he stubbornly kept his head down, clutching the hem of his clothes with his lips pressed together. I reached out to straighten his rolled-back cuff. When my fingertips touched his wrist, he flinched, but he didn't pull away.