Ice Cream

(I)

We're all spectators in a world gone mad. We watch the injustice unfold, as if like the silent audience to a tragic play. The third time, the villagers didn't come to help. But that's only in the story. Fiction, lies, false images are always stuck in our minds. And thus we end up believing the boy who cried, "Wolf! Wolf!" We know the script, the characters, even the ending, yet we remain glued to our seats. And sometimes we might want to get up from our seats. Just sometimes... yet the full-stop comes with just wanting to. Not to actually to. Fear, indifference, or simply the illusion of helplessness binds us.

It’s easy to look away. To pretend you don’t see the storm brewing. To convince yourself it’s not your problem. But sometimes, the storm comes for you, too. It’s in the quiet whispers, the sideways glances, the unspoken rules. It's in the way we let things slide, time and time again. Because it's easier. Because we’re afraid. Because we think we're small, and the world is big. Our voices are killed. And then we just put on a mask. And sway our heads as it is convenient. Sometimes, behind the mask, there is a world of pain. But we just swallow it along with our vision around us.

And this is the world we've created. Some bully others - from the need to being powerful - having no idea what it feels like to be bullied. They cannot empathize with them. Or maybe they bully others because they were also bullied. They don't want to feel hurt by themselves, so they pass these feelings onto others. And the rest are the clowns with their masks on, putting on with the show. Me. My other classmates. The teachers. No clown with a red nose can ever beat them.

But, imagine a world filled with kindness... instead of cruelty. Wouldn’t that be amazing?

The hallway was empty. All of its lifeblood of laughter and chatter have drained away. Dust motes danced lazily in the eerie silence, illuminated by the cruel, indifferent sunlight that seeped through the long window stretching on by one side. There were no little or loud chatters, only contours distorted by the elongated shadows that stalked the floor. Each one of my step felt like mournful dirges in the vast emptiness.

Right by the end of the corridor was my classroom. I was returning from my clubroom, to get a notebook I'd left behind after classes.

And that's when I saw them.

Three figures huddled in a dark corner of the room, their voices low but sharp. Owen, small and trembling, was backed against the chalkboard. The other three, their faces twisted in cruel grins, surrounded him like hungry wolves. Their low, guttural voices were like an elegy in the breathless silence. I froze with my heart pounding against my ribs and in my ears.

"Where's the money, rich boy?" one of them sneered. His voice was thick with malice.

Owen swallowed hard. His eyes were wide with fear. "I... I forgot it," he stammered.

A chorus of laughter erupted. "Forgot it? You think we're stupid?" another one jeered.

I pressed myself against the cool glass of the window, my breath coming in torn gasps. I wanted to shout, to run to his aid. But my body refused to move. Fear held me captive.

"We're hungry, you know," the first boy said. As soon as their laughter ended, their eyes became even more menacing. "How dare you ruin our snack time? Cough something out... or it won't be good."

Owen's shoulders slumped. Every bit of his face was brushed with strokes of desperation. That much was very clear even from this distance. Which also kept me from moving even a finger. I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. They moved closer, their shadows looming large on the wall. Owen shrank back, his eyes pleading. I squeezed my eyes shut, unable to bear the sight.

I can't do this. I can't watch. My hands cover my ears, but the sounds still seep through. Thumps, muffled cries, and cruel laughter. I'm freezing, stuck in place, like a scared rabbit caught in headlights. I want to help, to shout, to do something.

But my body won't move.

I'm just a coward, watching my friend get hurt.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. The bullies burst out laughing, and slowly their voices fade down the corridor. I peeked out cautiously. Owen was barely standing on his own, his back against the cold, unforgiving chalkboard.

Yes, I'm a clown too. With the mask over my face. Or else, how would I even show my face to him then... after calling him my friend.

"It's nothing much. They're not causing me any trouble."

Like I can't see... though even then what is the point?

"You don't have to worry. Like I said, I'm fine."

I knew he could see right through me. But I couldn't do anything. I was trapped, watching him suffer. I knew he was worried about me, but I couldn't break free.

(II)

The next day, Owen didn't come to school. The empty desk just stared back at me, like a black hole in the classroom. A thousand thoughts raced through my mind. Then, our teacher arrived, with her voice like a flat, lifeless thing. "A quick announcement for everyone. Owen won't be joining us anymore from today," she announced, her eyes avoiding the empty space. A ripple of surprise passed through the class, quickly replaced by the usual mindless chatter. "His father got a sudden transfer on a short notice. Sad for him, as he would've loved to say goodbye to all of you."

The teacher paused, a brief, almost imperceptible moment of silence. But even that felt forced, a hollow attempt at empathy. Her gaze, steady and cold, never once landed on the empty desk, marred by marker scribbles and half-erased doodles. It was as if Owen, and the space he once occupied, had ceased to exist.

The empty seat was a tombstone, marking the end of a life, or at least, a life in our world. No one cared, not really.

"Did you hear?" a whisper, sharp and cutting, broke through the indifferent chatter. "Apparently, Owen tried to kill himself. He lives close-by to my place, and the neighbors were talking about it." A snicker followed, then a laughter. "I guess it's one of those, right? Depression, or something... how stupid!" Like a contagious disease, spreading slowly.

Owen... tried to kill himself? Those words echoed in my head, a cold, hard truth that felt like a black fog, engulfing me from within. I turned my gaze to the back. The laughter soon died out, just like how it had begun. There was a pain too in it, just by listening to them laugh. Their faces were like monsters... crude, indifferent. And then there was another monster. The guilt, eating me alive. As if I'm the one who is responsible. What I had done... or maybe what I hadn't done was coming back to me. As if the world was turning upside down.

The rain pelted against my window with a relentless force, like the tears I couldn't hold back. The world outside was gray and gloomy, much like the storm settling within me. I dialed Owen's number over and over again, each time greeted with a cold, automated voice. When night fell, it only added to the darkness in my heart.

Then the next morning. Owen's desk sat empty like a gaping wound in our classroom. While everyone else carried on with their normal routines, I felt like I was drowning in a sea of grief. They laughed and joked as if nothing had changed, but to me, their ignorance was like a betrayal. How could they not see the pain that consumed me? I was trapped in this fortress of normalcy, screaming silently for someone to break through and understand my turmoil. But to them, I was just another ghost haunting the halls.

I stormed into my teacher's room, desperate for answers. But as soon as I mentioned his name, her demeanor shifted. Her once warm eyes turned to ice, freezing me in place. I struggled to speak, but my own words were caught in my throat like a tangled web.

It was then that I saw the mask on her face fall away, revealing a cold-hearted monster staring back at me. "What do you want to ask about him?" she spat.

My voice quivered as I replied, "I heard..." I couldn't finish my sentence before she cut me off with the harsh whip of her words. "Listen," she seethed, "if something happened to him, it's not our problem. Enough with the drama!"

Drama? The word tasted bitter on my tongue. As if Owen's pain could simply be brushed aside and forgotten. "He was bullied," I finally managed to choke out with tears welling in my eyes. "Owen was relentlessly bullied by his classmates. And that's why... he tried to..." My voice trailed off, unable to utter the truth of what had actually happened.

Her eyes narrowed in disbelief and anger. "Bullied? That's nonsense," she ran, quickly dismissing my words with a wave of her hand. "Now go back to your classroom and stop wasting my time."

(III)

Every day after that was a battle against my own mind, as I constantly struggled to keep my sanity in the suffocating classroom. The masks they wore were like a barrier between us, but I couldn't help but see the cracks, the glimpses of the monstrocity beneath. It was like breathing in toxic fumes... I couldn't take it anymore. Their silence and apathy were weighing me down, drowning me in this stifling environment. I had to do something, to break free from this prison.

And then, I saw it. While on my way to school, lying right beside the road under a street lamp, huddled along a bunch of other unnecessary things. An empty ice cream box of cardboard. Without any hesitation, I tore off a piece and took it with me.

This gilded cage they call a school imprisons more than our bodies; it confines our minds. Fed a diet of gilded lies, we're force-fed mediocrity in the name of excellence. Obedient drones, that's what they mold us to be. Cogs in a system.

But I refuse to be silenced, to be broken. This future belongs to us, not to them. And I intend to claim it. Sitting outside the imposing school gates, with the piece of cardboard in hand, I felt both exhilarated and terrified, both adrenaline and fear coursing through my veins. Would anyone notice? Would they understand? These thoughts raced through my mind as the world watched on, or at least that's what I hoped for.

I WON'T BE SILENT!

Heads turned, whispers like wind carried on invisible currents. Soon after, a swarm of teachers surrounded me. "What do you think you're doing?" one of them demanded. "This is ridiculous," another said. Her voice was dripping with disdain, "you're disrupting the school."

"More than what's happening inside these walls?" I countered.

"You're just being childish!"

A tense silence fell over them. The teachers exchanged glances. Their discomfort was evident. They knew they couldn't simply ignore me, but they were unsure of how to proceed.

Minutes turned into what felt like hours. The morning sun climbed higher, turning the dust along the playground into a shimmering mirage. People were looking, whispering, pointing. I didn’t care. I just sat there, holding up the cardboard. It felt like hours. Teachers came and went, telling me to go back to class. But I didn’t move.

The classes were soon over. Students gawked, some with pity, others with amusement. A few, with a flicker of understanding in their eyes, offered some sort of silent support. But it didn't matter. They were just spectators, content to watch the drama unfold.

When the final bell rang, another pack of wild dogs arrived. One of them spat out mocking words, taunting me for being a 'freak'. I tried to remain composed, but their voices were like venom, seeping into my skin and infecting me with fear.

“What do you think you’re doing, freak?” one of them spat out.

“I’m making a point,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady.

"What point?"

"Don't think you can just get away from everything!" I held onto the piece of cardboard. As if it's my shield. I was ready. Or at least, I thought I was. In an instant, their fists were flying towards me, striking me with brutal force. The pain was excruciating and disorienting, yet amidst the chaos, I could hear the cruel laughter and cheers of another crowd that had gathered to witness the spectacle.

They continued their assault until I was left trembling on the ground, battered and bruised. And when it was finally over, they callously tied me to the school gate like a helpless animal.

After the bullies left and the crowd dispersed, a classmate came to untie me. "Why?" he asked, leaving the question hanging in the air.

"Why? Because those bullies drove Owen to take his own life! How can I just let them get away with it?"

"Do you think this is what Owen would have wanted? Is hurting yourself really going to make things better?"

"What do you mean?"

"Just think about it. We weren't there for Owen when he needed us. What's the point of trying to seek revenge now?"

What's the point? The weight of his words hit me like a ton of bricks. I searched his face for an answer. Was it for Owen? For myself? Or was it just an empty attempt at redemption?

"I don't know," I finally admitted. "Maybe it's all of those reasons."

He shook his head. "But it won't bring Owen back," he argued. "What's the point if nothing changes?"

His words pierced my heart like a knife. And for a moment, I questioned my actions. What am I even doing? My eyes scanned the empty space around me, desperate for some kind of guidance. And then I saw it - the small piece of cardboard lying on the ground. Without hesitation, I reached for it with trembling hands.

"Maybe it won't change everything," I responded. "But it changes me. I'd rather feel the pain of standing up than live with the guilt of doing nothing. At least this way, I know I tried."

(IV)

We were in the teacher's office. Yesterday, after I came back home, It didn't take much time for my mother to pick up what had happened. And this morning, when she said she was coming with me to school, she was a different person.

"So, how can I help you?"

Mother didn't waste time. "My son was assaulted yesterday, beaten up and tied to the school gate."

The teacher shifted uncomfortably in their seat, trying to deflect blame. "Well, I've heard about it. But they said it was your fault, that you provoked them."

I couldn't hold back any longer. "That's not true! They were the ones who started it!"

But my teacher silenced me with a look. "Don't interrupt when adults are talking," she snapped.

"They even called him a troublemaker," she continued, ignoring my outbursts. "Said he was seeking attention."

"Attention-seeking?” My mother scoffed. “My son was beaten up, tied up like an animal, and they call him a troublemaker?"

My teachers face turned red. "Mam, please lower your voice. This is inappropriate behavior."

"Inappropriate? My son was assaulted. Is that appropriate? More serious than what happened to my son? My son returned home bruised and terrified!"

"Please calm down mam. We are handling the situation."

"Handling the situation? By blaming my son? By letting the bullies get away with it?"

"We have procedures in place." A hint of defensiveness creeped into her voice. "These things take time."

"Time...? Time for what? For more children to be bullied? For more parents to suffer?"

A tense silence filled the room. The teacher's eyes darted between me and my mother. They all seem used to dealing with compliant parents. All the teachers. But when someone is willing to challenge the system, the only thing they have is defiance.

"This is not acceptable! You have failed to protect my son. You have failed all the students in your care."

The teacher opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out. In that moment, the lines were clearly drawn. On one side was a mother fighting for her child, and on the other, a system that was more concerned with maintaining the status quo.

"Can you just leave me be, mam? I have a job to do too!"

"We're not leaving until this is resolved!"

The teacher's voice boomed throughout the room, drowning out all other noise. "I will not tolerate this disruption any longer! Get out of my sight!" All of a sudden, every eye in the room was fixated on us, with stares burning like lasers into our skin. My mother squeezed my hand tightly, and together we slowly retreated towards the door, ready to walk out from the office. But as we reached for the handle, all of a sudden, a chaos of footsteps arrived right around the other side of the door. The boy who had freed me yesterday burst through the door, followed by half of all my classmates. They marched in with determination, forming a barrier between us and the gazes of the teachers. Soon they were joined by even more students, drowing all the other gazes that were overwhelming us till now.

"Why are you all here?"

"I've seen him get bullied. Owen… he was bullied time and time again," a girl from the middle suddenly spoke out, her voice shifting from a timid whisper to a bold, resolute cry. "Yet… I didn't do anything."

Her confession was like a stone breaking the surface of a still pond. The ripple of her words stirred something deep within the room, and one by one, students began to speak up. A boy, his face flushed with shame, choked out that he’d laughed at Owen when he was being picked on. Another girl, her voice trembling, admitted to spreading cruel rumors about him.

The room now crackled with a raw scent of remorse and regret. It felt as if a dam had burst, unleashing a flood of guilt and unspoken truths. The air had gotten heavy with the weight of their silence, the crushing burden of their inaction. Each confession added to it, like a heavy, oppressive blanket that smothered us all.

As I watched them, my heart wrestled with a storm of emotions. Anger burned hot, mixed with a deep, painful understanding. They were not just bystanders; they were caught in a cycle of fear and apathy that trapped them as much as it had trapped Owen. We were all entangled, bound by invisible chains of our own making. 

And as much as the realization was suffocating, it felt relieving in a totally different way.

“Everyone…”

"I told the class what had happened yesterday.” The boy from yesterday spoke up again. “Like you said, I'd rather feel the pain of standing up than the emptiness of doing nothing. At least, I'll know I tried. After all, we're all part of the problem, we let it happen."

My mother turned around again. A deep breath filled her lungs, as she continued, "My son was beaten, humiliated, and left for dead. And you, the people who are supposed to protect our children, did nothing! You failed him, and you failed every child who walks through these doors!"

Heads turned, eyes wide with shock and disbelief. All the teachers and staff alike were frozen in place. "This is not just about my son, this is about every child who has been bullied, every student who has felt unsafe, every parent who has sent their child to school with fear in their hearts. We are tired of being silent, of being ignored. We demand change!"

Live the kind of life you can be proud of, even if, in the end, you get lost or hurt yourself along the way. The truth is, nothing will help you from not getting hurt. But when you'll find something worth suffering for, even the worst hurt won't feel as bad.