The 8th

To the biggest bully who is now, thankfully, out of my life:

May you burn in Hell for an Eternity of suffering.

I am a damaged soul because of you.

FROM THE SAME AUTHOR

Love Life

The Vampire’s Treaty

(The Peter Chronicles)

Happy Ever After

G.S.O.H Essential

A Fresh Start

PETER

All Good Things

9 Months Book One

9 Months Book Two

9 Months Book Three

Non-Fiction titles

im fine

PlentyOfFreaks

Wasting Stamps

Self-publishing: Releasing your book to the digital market

Short Story Collections

Scribblings From a Dark Place

Reviews, Critics & Mystery Shopping

The Story Collection: Volume One

Novellas

Smile

The Dead Don’t Knock

Writer’s Block

Buried

The Last Stop

The Chosen Routes

A Christmas to Remember (YOU choose the story)

Romance is Dead

The Breakdown

Picture Books

I Hate Fruit & Veg

© Matt Shaw

The right of Matt Shaw to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any format without written consent from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for insertion in a magazine, newspaper or broadcast.

The characters, and story, in this book are purely fictitious. Any likeness to person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

WITH THANKS TO:

Elena Helfrecht of Apokryphia Art

For the awesome job she did with the cover design and photography.

You can see more of her work at:

http://apokryphiaart.deviantart.com

http://apokryphiaart.jimbo.com

Or look her up on Facebook!

A note from the Author

Although I don’t believe violent acts should be answered with more violence, I have to say I really am sick and tired of hearing about people bullying each other. More and more, in the news, you hear about youngsters who have killed themselves because of what they’d had to go through from their colleagues and fellow human beings. They kill themselves because they feel as though it’s their only option. They don’t feel as though they can go and speak out to friends, or adults, without fear of making the situation worse.

At school I was bullied. Even today I’m not sure what made me a target compared to all the other people in the school (although I’m not stupid enough to think I was the only one going through it). I never went around asking to be bullied. They just seemed to find me. It wasn’t like I was even an easy target. They’d call me a name...I’d punch them. Hell, after repeatedly being called gay by one individual, I even beat him repeatedly around the head with a carrier bag which contained some rugby boots! I can look back and laugh now because no damage was really done and I didn’t get into any major trouble but, at the time, it was horrific...Both the name-calling and what I did as my act of revenge...

I guess, when my dad called me a ‘nasty, vindictive little bastard’ he was right. Ah well...

Remember, I’m not saying violence is the answer. If you’re being bullied, or know someone who is getting grief, tell someone. Don’t keep it a secret and, for God’s sake, don’t act out aggressively or do anything else stupid. You obviously enjoy reading, after all you’re reading this book, but I bet you don’t like reading about suicides or murder / suicides as witnessed in various schools across our messed up real-life world.

Matt

PROLOGUE

Just like every other day I was the last one into the classroom. It wasn’t because I was late. Most days I was early as I opted to get the earlier bus to avoid the crowds and my fellow classmates. It was just easier that way - with regards to getting the earlier bus and being one of the last into the classroom.

With my heart pounding hard in my chest I stepped into the classroom just behind Mrs Price, the teacher, who paid me little attention as she briskly walked across to her desk, in her tight-fitting black pencil skirt and white blouse, in front of the pupils. I closed the door and pulled the window-blind down to stop people from being able to look in. This was something I didn’t usually do. Normally I was happy for other teachers to poke their noses in - to make sure we were behaving while our teacher had her back to us as she scribbled on the blackboard. Today, though, I don’t welcome their attention.

By the time I turned away from the heavy oak door Mrs Price was staring at me with a look of contempt on her face; an expression she regularly adopted whilst looking at me through no fault of my own. I’m almost positive she’s fairly pretty, with her curly shoulder length blonde hair, big blue eyes and full lips painted heavily in a seductive red lipstick...It’s had to be sure whether she is actually pretty or not...under that stern expression. It was fair to say she was one of the stricter teachers. I didn’t move. Part of me wanted to go and take my usual seat in the front row of the classroom; as far away from Piers and his friends as I could possibly get without sitting in the teacher’s lap. The other part of me wanted to carry on as I had planned.

Mrs Price folded her arms. You knew she was angry when she did this. First came the deathly stare which could penetrate the most hardened of souls and then came the folding of the arms. Next up she’ll speak in a tone which would send most sane men running for the hills for fear of spontaneously combusting at the sound of her voice. I pity her husband. After a few warning words, which were normally laced with sarcasm, she’d suddenly flip a switch and start shouting.

A quick scan of my fellow classmates showed they were all looking at me. Some of them looked worried for me and others just sat there with a sadistic look of glee upon their faces as they waited to enjoy the floor show Mrs Price and I were about to put on for them. All of them were thankful they weren’t standing in my shoes at this precise moment. I’m starting to wish I had waited for my second class of the day to do this. Mr Smart was a much friendlier teacher.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware you were teaching the class today,” said Mrs Price with just about the right level of sarcasm I was expecting. A few quiet sniggers from around the classroom. I didn’t say anything. I just stood there, blocking the doorway whilst wondering whether this was the right thing to do.  Had I really planned it through? It’s too late now. There’s no turning back. With my left hand shaking I reached into my rucksack, which was one-strapped over my right shoulder. I froze. I could feel it in my hand but part of me was still screaming that this wasn’t the right thing to do; screaming there were better ways of dealing with things...

“Shut up!” I whispered under my breath to the part of me which was scared. I knew this was the right thing to do. It had been building for far too long. They had it coming. They all did. Everything that was to follow, when I pulled my hand from the rucksack, is deserved and I refuse to let the scared part of me, the quiet side of my personality, ruin the enjoyment I’m going to get.

“What did you say?” said Mrs Price; a tone of voice I had never heard before. Neither had the rest of the class. A quick scan of my classmates showed they had all sunk back, ever so slightly, in their uncomfortable grey plastic chairs. The ones who previously had gleeful smiles upon their faces were now sat expressionless so as not to attract the attention of Mrs Price. Their faces were white as they feared what they were about to witness. They have no idea. Today, it’s not Mrs Price they need to fear.

It’s me.

I pulled my hand from my rucksack, my father’s 9mm Glock, gripped firmly in my palm with my index finger on the trigger and my other fingers around the handle. Everyone screamed, even Mrs Price. Need to control them. Need to silence them. Don’t want to attract any unwanted attention. I don’t need this to be any worse than I already have planned.

“I said
shut up
!” I hissed. I pointed the gun at Mrs Price first. She fell backwards onto the floor. I couldn’t help but smile a little. All those years of her shouting the odds at us. All those years of her believing she was untouchable. It was nice to see her fall. I span the gun around to point at my classmates. Some of whom were cowering behind their hands, as though they had the power to stop a bullet should I choose to fire, whilst others were trying to get under their desks. The sadistic part of me was surprised no one tried to make a dash for me. No one tried to wrestle the gun away from me. No one tried to control the situation. I’m glad. I don’t want the sound of gunfire. Not yet. That would have ruined everything I have planned. The fact they’re all petrified. It should make controlling them that much easier...

The 8th

It was weird seeing Mrs Price sitting in the front row, amongst the pupils who despised her so much. Not just because I was used to seeing her at the front of the class berating someone but...Her expression...Tears in her eyes, a pale complexion...Shaking...She’s shaking. I’ve never seen that before. Not from a woman who presents herself as being so domineering. Speaking of ‘domineering’ I had often heard Piers talking to his little gang, discussing whether Mrs Price would look good in skin-tight latex with a whip in her hand. The majority of the group said she would. Some of them even admitted to masturbating to the thought of her like that...One of the group said the bulge of her penis would ruin the overall look. Seeing her, sat here now...There’s nothing manly about her. There’s nothing domineering. She’s a nothing. Maybe I should get her to stand up and prove to Piers and his gang that she doesn’t have a cock hidden under her black pencil skirt. No. That’s not fair. This isn’t about belittling her despite what she puts us through on a day to day basis. At the end of the day she is just being strict to keep us in control. Outside of the school she’s probably a human. Deep down. Somewhere.

“What are you doing?” she asked in a meek voice. I have to confess, she surprised me. Most of the time there was a little masculinity in her voice but not now. Now she sounded like a scared little girl. Had you not seen who it was speaking you could have been forgiven for thinking it was one of the school’s many female pupils talking.

I didn’t answer her. Instead I reached across to her pile of folders, which she had placed on the desk when she first came into the room, and picked up the  one labelled as ‘registration’. I flicked it open to the first page; a list of names of the boys and girls who should be sat in front of me for this lesson.

“When I call out your name,” I said, “please say
here
.” One by one I called out the various names from the list in front of me, not that I needed a list. I knew their names; my classmates. The people who had tormented me day in and day out for the past two years whether it was by name-calling or physical abuse. I won’t ever forget their names. And after today, people won’t forget my name either. Minutes later and the roll-call was done. No-one was absent for a change. Good. I’d have hated for them to miss this.

I put the folder down and cast my eyes around the class. It’s unfortunate some of them are here and have to witness this. In a class of twenty-five there are some who are like me. They don’t deserve to be here. They don’t deserve what’s coming. I don’t have a choice but to include them, though. If I let them go, they’ll no doubt inform someone what is happening in here. If I were in their shoes I know I’d go and get help if I was let out.  My gaze fixed upon Rebecca Clarke who was sitting in the middle of the classroom, towards one of the walls. Rebecca was one of the louder girls in the class. She was more centered upon sleeping with as many of the boys as she could as opposed to soaking useful information. If the rumors are to be believed, and I have no reason to doubt them, she’s swallowed more cum than I’ve had hot meals. Of course she doesn’t struggle to attract the boy’s attention looking the way she does; long dark hair down to her petite waist and large breasts enhanced further by a tight-fitting school shirt. Unlike a lot of the other girls who chose to wear trousers, she always opted for the skirt. She even took the time, in lunch-breaks, to roll it up a little to show off more leg. Sometimes she rolls it up so much you can’t help but think of it as nothing more than a belt. Pregnant by eighteen, I reckon.