The Victim He cried. It felt as though nothing worse could ever be, and he cried, no, spewed tears. The feeling of the crying wasn't too dissimilar to the nausea he felt during the attack in the playground. His stomach was churning and his breathing was becoming laboured. Why did it happen? What triggered it all off? He thought back and had to delve deep to find the truth which he had long since buried in that place where ostriches heads live and everything is bouncy, happy, sunny and slightly surreal. He needed a big imaginary shovel to get that deep and an even bigger breath to be able to face the truth. Flashes of memory, words, smells and sounds came at him like the sniffing noses of a dog, unsure whether or not what he is sniffing is dead or not. Preparing to feed, except this time, dinner was the world around him. He tensed waiting for the sky to fall in, as the memories became clearer. The smell of copper and farts, the feel of wet blood, fresh, bright, on his arm. That's what the coppery smell was then. He remembered each kick, each impact and the crying out in pain, the begging to stop, but eventually that stopped and the only sound left was the odd grunt whenever another boot made contact. He felt dizzy, sick, face tingling and drawn at the memories. The other boy had done nothing to him, it was only supposed to be a laugh. The other boy had moved schools, didn't come back, neither did he, and youth detention centre was hard on boys who had nearly killed someone. He felt his most recent bruise, and went to breakfast shaking with fear at how the situation was now opposite. Who would bully him first today.......