THUNK!

Tim's back hit the hard metal locker causing him to wince in pain. The beefy hand that was gripping his neck didn't help much either. He opened his eyes wide, looking into the demonic eyes of his tormentor. Those eyes had been haunting him for years now. He didn't dare fight back, though he did glance down the school halls, hoping for some sort of rescue from a peer or a teacher. Unfortunately, the other students either quickened their pace to avoid being seen or slowed their pace to see the spectacle. Even the teachers avoided the scuffles; they considered it easier to simply ignore what was happening than to intervene.

"Where's my paper, geek?" The bully's breath reeked of corned beef and nicotine. Tim wrinkled his nose.

"I'll get it for you soon, Joey," he promised. "I just had a lot of homework last night and—" His explanation was cut off by another body slam against the locker.

"I don't care about your problems," Joey snarled, tightening his grip around the younger boy's throat. "The paper's due tomorrow. If you don't get it to me, your ass is mine."

He released Tim who fell to the ground panting for air. His asthma wasn't helping the situation; he didn't dare try to retrieve his inhaler, though, and run the risk of having it stolen again. "I'll get it…I swear," he said between gasps. In his mind, he prayed for the encounter to be finished.

His prayer was unanswered.

"Now about my payment," Joey said as Tim shakily stood. The poor young boy's knees were practically knocking together as he stood.

"W-what payment?"

"The payment you're gonna give me since I'm generously allowing you to write my paper on Fahrenheit 411."

"Fahrenheit 451," Tim corrected automatically.

"Whatever. I'm letting you write it for me out of the goodness of my heart, so I expect something in return."

Personally, Tim didn't think Joey Bertucci had a heart, but he was smart enough not to say that aloud. He'd found it was easier to just give in than to try and fight it. "What do you want?" he asked warily.

Joey shot his meat-headed friends an amused look. "How much money you got?"

Tim considered the question carefully before answering. "Two dollars…" It sounded much more like a question than a statement of fact.

The bully wasn't buying it. In a flash, his two friends had Tim pinned against the lockers while Joey dug through his pockets. "Two dollars?" he asked as he pulled out a few bills. "Looks like you've got a lot more than that. More like…twenty-three dollars." He pocketed the money and gave Tim a cold stare. "You weren't trying to lie to me to get out of paying me, now were you, geek?"

"N-no…" Tim said in a shaky voice. He knew what was coming next and tried to brace himself.

The rock-hard fist hit his gut at full force. The hard locker pressed into his back caused even further pain in the vicious blow. The bullies released him and he wrapped his arms around his aching gut as he fell to his knees. The wind had been knocked out of him and he gasped for a few seconds before regaining his breath. He swallowed a bit of bile which had risen in his throat; he'd grown used to the taste and barely even winced when the acidic liquid slid back down.

Joey squatted down so that he was eye-level with his victim. "You may think you're so smart, but you don't mess with me, turd. You got that?"

Tim nodded mutely.

"Now I want that paper in my hand tomorrow morning with another ten dollars for lying to me. If I don't have it, my friends and I will dunk your head so far down in a filthy fucking shit-filled toilet you'll never get all the crap off. Got it?"

"Yes." His response was barely above a whisper.

As if his victim's submissiveness wasn't enough, Joey decided to use Tim's backpack to practice his punting. The open bag flew down the hallway, littering the floor with various papers, pens, and notebooks. The bully and his friends walked over the papers, leaving their muddy footprints on some of Tim's carefully written notes and homework. It had all been so pristine moments earlier.

He pulled himself to his feet, arm wrapped around his stomach. It still hurt to breathe. Tim gathered up the skewed papers and shoved them angrily in his bag, no longer caring whether or not something was crumpled or torn. He then made a hasty retreat to the bathroom. Thankfully, it was empty.

Tim studied himself in the mirror. There was no immediately visible bruising; when he lifted his shirt, however, there was a large patch of blue and grey spread across his skin. It was for the best that he kept it hidden, though. He knew all too well what would happen if his parents saw them. His mother would go into a frenzy about it, interrogating him on the who, what, when, where, and why of the bruising. His father, the Naval Officer, would gruffly remind Tim that, as a man, he should be able to defend himself.

"When I was your age," his dad had said on many occasions, "if any guy tried to mess with me, I'd clean his clock! Why didn't you defend yourself? Did you even try to get in a couple of punches?"

Tim had attempted several times to tell his dad that he just wasn't good at the fighting thing, that it was easier to take the punches silently than to fight back and get hurt even worse. His dad had never quite understood how Tim, who was the spitting image of him, could be so different than he had been as a boy. His unspoken disappointment followed Tim wherever he went.

The school bell rang a five minute warning. Tim dropped his shirt and looked at himself in the mirror once more. This time, he wasn't looking at his wounds, but at himself, the teenager he'd become. He was disgusted. What kind of sixteen-year-old kid still cowered at the hand of bullies? He was a wimp, a wuss. Worse, he had a sickening feeling that he would always be a weakling, letting himself be stepped over by guys who were stronger and bigger (though far dumber) than he was. He would always be a human punching bag.

He hated himself for it.

AN: Hey, guys! As usual, this story is already complete! I will post one chapter a day!