It started in fifth grade...
A small child, all alone at recess, aproached by a group of others from his class.
He knew them well. They were tormentors; kids who had their innocence twisted and wretched from them until there was nothing but an empty shell and anger. Alfred always struggled with school, always in the shadow of his younger twin, Matthew; constantly trying to rise to the expectations of his parents. Antonio's English, like his, was poor at best; he was manipulated, coerced into joining this band of misfits. Francis was an abuse victim, looking to take his rage out on someone else.
Finally, the one who was the cause of all his misery. The one who always instigated, always lied to gain what he wanted. Gilbert, the outcast. Motherless, shunned by others, and always all alone. They were exactly like him, yet they couldn't see past their own pains and twisted logics to notice. And so he acted as their trauma sponge, letting them relieve their frustrations on him.
He never cried, like they wanted him to. He would always just lay there, curled in the grass while they threw their sneakers into his sides and arms. As the other three were beating him, Gilbert would always stand by, and they would stare into each others' eyes - Albino red coflicting with blue-violet - until the mob tired out and disbanded. They would continue to gaze into each others' faces, emotionless, speaking those unspoken words that could only be felt with the soul. Gilbert never offered to help the Russian to his feet, nor did he ever apologize; and the other didn't care.
When Gilbert walked away, that was when they both allowed themselves to cry.
Ivan always took the beatings wordlessly, never shedding a tear until he was alone, because that was the only time he felt weak enough to care...