'Bully: noun, a person who deliberately intimidates or persecutes those who are weaker'

Rimmer glanced up from the dictionary, and allowed his eyes to wander the classroom. He guaranteed that every one of the boys in the room had, at some point in their school lives, teased him, taunted him, tripped him up, knocked him down or beat him up.

Every single boy had bullied Arnold J. Rimmer. He sadly closed the dog-eared dictionary and stared blankly at the piece of paper that lay on his desk. It was clean, not a single mark on it. Rimmer hated having to spoil the cleanliness and beauty of a fresh piece of paper. His work was always graffitited on with the blood red ink of the teacher's pen, leaking out horrific words and comments such as 'atrocious work Rimmer!' and 'not nearly good enough.'

This meant that Rimmer's failure was tattooed forever on the poor piece of paper. "Sorry" he whispered sadly to the paper, he slowly picked up his pen and held it poised over the sheet and pondered what to put. The loud, intimidating trill of the school bell made Rimmer jump, scrawling a messy, inky scratch across the crisp, white page.

"Leave your work on the desk, I'll collect it in" barked Rimmer's English teacher Mr. Marten waling between the desks and snatching his pupils work from under their noses. Rimmer's pulse quickened as the empty, wordless page glared up at him. He quickly stuffed his pencil case into his bag and raced out of the room without looking back.

Rimmer was now 13 ½, and his life was getting harsher. It seemed everyday, his bullies came up with a new taunt, a new way of inflicting pain and misery but they still kept to the old ways. Bonehead. Bonehead forever. Rimmer sat at the very back of the schoolyard, on the floor. His blazer will probably get muddy, and he'll be told off, but he doesn't care. Rimmer wrapt his scrawny arms round his boney knees, and rested his chin on the top. He gazed round the yard with the same tension and anxiety of a small bird, who's seen a hungry cat lurking nearby. A football smacked hard against Rimmer's legs, knocking Rimmer out of his surveillance mode. The ball bounced playfully to the left. He eyed it warily, knowing full well that it's owner would be along any minute and start hassling Rimmer for 'getting in the way of his ball'.

"Oi, Bonehead!" came a cruel, mocking voice. Rimmer shuddered shamelessly, and turned away, hugging his knees even tighter. "

Oi, Bonehead, you deaf or something?" laughed the cruel voice. It echoed round Rimmer's brain, and filled him with fear. He raised his head, to get a good look at his tormenter. What he saw made his blood run cold. A gang of 20 or so boys, all grinning at him like hungry, bloodthirsty sharks.

"Chuck us the ball will you, Bonehead" Rimmer looked at the ball, then back at the boy. It sat only 2 metres away from him, it would be far easier for the boy to walk up and get it. Rimmer knew what the boy was doing, and he didn't like it. He slowly climbed to his feet and walked up to the ball, he then leant down and gently picked it up. Rimmer threw it as best he could; this caused the group of boys to erupt into fits of howling laughter.

His pathetically weak arms had only thrown the ball a metre away. Rimmer felt blood flush his face in embarrassment as he turned his back on the bullies who were now chanting 'Bonehead' at the top of their voices, and sat down on the dusty floor. Rimmer had tried telling his father about the name- calling he endured at school (he was careful not to let slip the actual names, the last thing he wanted was his father using the bullies names against him)

"Sticks and stones only break bones, but names can never hurt you," was his all father said without looking up from his paper.

Rimmer cheered up a bit, but then his father felt it necessary to add "wimp!"

Rimmer stared down at his scruffy, lace up shoes, and wished with all his heart that the bullies would leave him alone. He didn't want to be popular, he didn't want loads of friends, he didn't want to be 'one of the gang, he didn't even want to be liked. All he wanted was to be left alone. Rimmer plucked a stick up off the floor, and began to write in the dirt.

"Sticks and stones may only break bones, but words can shatter a soul"

To Rimmer, these words were not just lines, curves, dots and dashes, they became a message, a symbol, a curse. He wrote it out again,

"Sticks and stones may only break bones, but words can shatter a soul"

he stared at the message, taking it all in before writing it out again

"Sticks and stones my only break bones, but words can shatter a soul" and again

"STICKS AND STONES MAY ONLY BREAK BONES BUT WORDS CAN SHATTER A SOUL!"

"STICKS AND STONES MAY ONLY BREAK BONES BUT WORDS CAN SHATTER A SOUL!"

"STICKS AND STONES MAY ONLY BREAK BONES BUT WORDS CAN SHATTER A SOUL!"

He became so absorbed in writing out the message; he slipped into another world, only when he looked up to check that no one was watching him did he realise that the yard was empty. The bell that signalled the end of break had rang more then 10 minutes ago. Rimmer was late for maths. He picked up his bag and ran across the yard, through the doors and stumbled down the corridor. Even if he ran, as fast as he possibly could, ran like he had never ran before, he'd still be 20 minutes late for his lesson. Rimmer peered through the maths classroom window, and cursed as he saw the whole class was sat working, chatting quietly.

Rimmer pulled some long forgotten courage from its hiding place, crouched on the floor, and pushed the door open. It's creak went unnoticed and Rimmer began to crawl along the row of desks, praying that he wouldn't be caught. He was a few short crawls away from his desk, when a pair of smart black shoes, and a trouser suit blocked his path. Rimmer reluctantly gazed up into the fuming face of his Math teacher Mr. Johnston,

"Hello sir" he said meekly.

"Hello Mister Rimmer, so glad of you to grace us with your presence" growled the teacher, quick as a flash, he hand flew out and grabbed Rimmer's ear. He twisted it painfully before yanking Rimmer onto his feet,

"Why you late, boy?" he spat, leaning close to Rimmer's face and snarling

"I...I" stammered Rimmer, trembling with fear

"YOU WHAT, BOY?" hollered Mr. Johnston,

"I lost track of time sir," replied Rimmer.

"You lost track of time?" mocked Mr. Johnston, Rimmer opened his mouth to reply, but the words wouldn't come, so he nodded his head timidly,

"Well, you know what I do with late comers" Rimmer felt the bottom of his stomach collapse, his heart explode, and a cold, wet sweat begin to drip down his back "

No sir, please no" he whispered, backing away.

Mr Johnston's black eyes lit up in glee, he grasped Rimmer's thin wrists and dragged him to the front of the class. By this time all eyes were on Rimmer, and awaiting his demise.

"Please, sir" Rimmer screamed, hot tears rolling down his cheeks, "please, please, don't, I'm begging you, sir please"

"You need to be taught your lesson," yelled Mr. Johnston, he turned Rimmer's hand over, palm facing upwards, and got out of his draw, the things that Rimmer's nightmares were made of.

A cane, a long, flexible, wooden cane, it was hand carved from an oak tree, and was one of the most powerful and destructive things Rimmer had ever had the misfortune to come across.

Mr. Johnston grinned wickedly, as he raised the cane above his head, and brought it slashing down on Rimmer's palm.

Every boy in the room winced as the 'swoosh' of the cane ended, and it made contact with Rimmer's hand. Rimmer bit his lower lip, and realised a tidal wave of tears. Mr. Johnston let out a satisfied chuckle, and raised the cane above his head, and brought it down again with more vigour than last time. With every hit of the cane, Rimmer's pleading screams, got louder and louder, and Mr. Johnston's satisfaction grew. After 15 hits of the cane, Mrs Johnston lowered the cane, and placed it loving on the desk,

"Still want to turn up late for my lessons, Rimmer?" he asked, giving Rimmer a frown. Rimmer nursed his sore, red hands, and shook his head.

"Good" barked Mr. Johnston, Rimmer shuffled over to his desk, running his fingers delicately over the already bruising skin of his palm.

Every pair of eyes in the room was on him, every face was grinning, and every soul hated Arnold J. Rimmer.