There's a saying that goes, "Never give up, for that is just the place and time that the tide will turn."
Similarly, the tides of my middle school life turned on this fateful day, for better or worse.
Knock. Knock.
"Hey, Mark. Wake up, or you'll be late for school."
My mother's voice came from the other side of my bedroom door.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Did you hear me?"
I pulled the blanket over my head.
"Mark!"
"Yes, Mom! I'm up!"
I wasn't.
I lay buried beneath my blanket, eyes closed, enjoying what little remained of my precious morning sleep. Outside, the neighborhood was slowly coming to life. I could hear the distant rumble of vehicles passing along the road, the occasional bark of a dog, and the faint voices of people beginning their day.
But none of that mattered to me.
My bed was warm, my eyes were heavy, and school was the last place I wanted to be.
A few minutes later, I finally dragged myself out of bed and began getting ready. By the time I had put on my uniform and sat down to tie my shoelaces, Mom was standing by the door with her arms crossed.
"I told you to wake up on time, but you never listen. Why don't you just leave the door open? That way, I can come in and shake you right off the bed."
I tightened my shoelaces and looked up at her.
"Have you ever heard of something called privacy, Mom?"
She gave me a look.
I grinned, grabbed my bag, and hurried out before she could come up with a reply.
That was how most of my mornings went.
At the time, I thought they were ordinary. Annoying, sometimes, but ordinary. I never thought there would come a day when I would wish more than anything to hear those knocks again.
My school wasn't particularly far from home, so I walked there every morning. The route was familiar enough that I rarely paid attention to it. I would pass the same little shops, the same houses, and the same people heading off to work. Sometimes, I'd stop to watch a stray cat rummaging through a pile of garbage or dodge a bicycle speeding down the narrow road.
Most mornings, I was in a hurry.
That day was no different.
By the time I reached school, the morning assembly was about to begin.
Our school building stood behind a tall iron gate, with a wide courtyard separating it from the road. The walls were painted a faded cream, and the paint had begun peeling around the windows. The courtyard was usually filled with students chatting, running around, or desperately trying to finish their homework before the teachers noticed.
I made my way to my classroom and settled into my usual seat in the middle rows.
I wasn't particularly sociable. I rarely started conversations, and unless someone spoke to me first, I was perfectly content to sit quietly by myself.
Still, I had four friends who talked to me almost every day.
We had a habit of writing stories together during breaks and free periods. One of us would come up with an idea, another would add a character, and before long, we'd be arguing over the fate of some fictional kingdom as though the world depended on it.
It was one of the few things I genuinely looked forward to at school.
I liked writing.
More than that, I liked creating worlds where people could be anything they wanted to be. Worlds where the weak could become strong, where the overlooked could become heroes, and where even the most impossible dreams had a chance of coming true.
For a while, I could almost say that everything in my life was fine the way it was.
But-
"Hey, you. What are you writing?"
I stopped moving my pen.
A boy stood beside my desk, looking down at my notebook.
He was one of those people who seemed to enjoy making others uncomfortable. He wasn't particularly intimidating to look at, but he had a way of carrying himself that made it difficult to ignore him. He was loud, pushy, and always seemed to have someone standing behind him.
I knew better than to get on his bad side.
"Nothing," I muttered, keeping my eyes on the page.
He leaned closer.
"Then let me see."
I continued writing.
"Hey. I'm talking to you."
His hand appeared in front of my face, palm open.
"Give it here."
I knew what would happen if I refused.
I had seen it happen to other students often enough. A shove here, a slap there, followed by a few threats to make sure nobody complained.
Yet, for some reason, I couldn't bring myself to hand over my notebook.
My pen hovered over the paper.
Maybe I should just give it to him.
He stood there, waiting, his hand still stretched toward me.
I could feel my heart pounding. My eyes began to sting, and I lowered my head, hoping he wouldn't notice.
I was scared.
I hated that I was scared.
But I was more afraid of what would happen if I stood up to him.
For a few moments, neither of us moved.
Then, to my surprise, he withdrew his hand and walked away.
I watched him leave from the corner of my eye.
Relief washed over me.
Maybe the tides have finally turned.
It was a stupid thought, looking back. A moment of peace hardly meant anything had changed.
But when you're fourteen, even the smallest victory can feel like a miracle.
I returned to my writing.
And for a little while, I forgot about him.
The lunch bell rang.
The classroom erupted into noise as students pushed their chairs back, grabbed their lunch boxes, and hurried outside. Some headed toward the school canteen, while others gathered in the courtyard or sat beneath the trees.
My four friends had gone ahead without me. I had stayed behind to finish the paragraph I was writing.
Soon, the classroom fell quiet.
Sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating the dust floating lazily in the air. Somewhere outside, I could hear students laughing and shouting. The distant clatter of the canteen drifted through the open windows.
I was just beginning to lose myself in my story when a shadow fell across my desk.
I looked up.
It was him.
This time, he wasn't alone.
Another boy stood beside him, chewing something as he glanced around the classroom. He was taller than me, with a broad frame and an expression that suggested he was already enjoying himself.
"Didn't I tell you to give me that notebook?" the first boy asked.
I swallowed.
"I was just-"
His friend reached across the desk and snatched the notebook from my hands.
"Let's see what you've got here."
"Hey! Give it back!"
He ignored me and flipped to the first page.
Then he began reading aloud.
"'The People of the Sky Islands.'"
I shot to my feet.
"Stop! Give it back!"
He looked at me for a moment, a crooked smile spreading across his face.
Then he continued.
"'No one believed when a young girl said she'd seen people with wings peeking down from the clouds. They thought she was but a child speaking fantasy.'"
The words that had once felt so wonderful on the page sounded humiliating in his voice.
He exaggerated every sentence, making it sound childish and ridiculous.
I stepped toward him.
"Please. Just give it back."
He took a step away.
"'But one day, her father too saw the impossible. A person with wings flying hastily towards the clouds.'"
I lunged for the notebook.
He twisted away from me and darted toward the front of the classroom, laughing as he went. His shoes scraped against the floor, and the notebook fluttered in his hands.
I chased after him.
The first boy stepped into my path and shoved me backward.
"Where do you think you're going?"
I stumbled, catching myself against a desk.
"Move!"
He laughed.
Behind him, his friend had reached the lectern at the front of the classroom. He climbed behind it, opened my notebook again, and continued reading as though he were giving a speech.
"'Soon a crowd gathered, and the whole village witnessed the person with wings.'"
I pushed past the first boy and ran toward the lectern.
For a moment, I thought I might actually reach him.
But as I came closer, his expression changed.
He shut the notebook.
Then he gripped its pages with both hands.
"Let's see what happens next."
He began pulling them apart.
Something inside me snapped.
"STOP!"
I lunged forward and slapped him across the face.
The sound echoed through the empty classroom.
He staggered half a step, his expression frozen in disbelief. The notebook slipped from his hands and landed on the floor.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
My palm stung.
My heart hammered against my chest.
I had never hit anyone like that before.
I knew immediately that I had made things worse.
But I didn't care anymore.
I bent down to grab my notebook.
Before my fingers could reach it, a sharp kick struck the side of my stomach.
The air rushed out of my lungs.
I crumpled to the floor, clutching my side. Pain spread through my abdomen, and for a moment, I couldn't do anything except gasp.
"Little turd thinks he's something, huh?"
I tried to push myself up.
A hand grabbed the front of my uniform and hauled me halfway to my feet.
The first boy.
"Think you're tough now?"
His fist struck my face.
My head snapped to the side.
I stumbled backward, my vision blurring as I struggled to stay upright. Before I could recover, another punch landed, followed by a shove that sent me crashing against a desk.
The desk scraped across the floor.
I heard something clatter to the ground.
I couldn't tell what it was.
All I could think about was getting away.
I swung at him.
My fist connected with his shoulder, doing little more than making him stumble.
He looked at me.
Then he hit me again.
The two of them closed in.
I tried to protect my head, but the blows kept coming. A kick caught me in the ribs. Another struck my side. I threw my arms out, trying to push them away, but every movement seemed to invite another hit.
I fought back whenever I could.
I punched, shoved, and kicked, driven more by panic than any real intention of hurting them.
But I was smaller.
Weaker.
And there were two of them.
Every time I managed to land a hit, they answered with two more.
At some point, I fell to the floor.
I curled up instinctively, pulling my knees toward my chest and covering my head with my arms.
The blows continued for a while.
Then they stopped.
I heard them breathing heavily.
"Get up, then."
I didn't move.
A shoe nudged my side.
"What's wrong? Had enough?"
I kept my arms over my head.
I couldn't breathe properly. My stomach hurt, my ribs ached, and my face felt as though it were burning.
I wanted to scream at them.
I wanted to get up and hit them again.
I wanted someone to come through the door.
But I couldn't do any of those things.
Eventually, they seemed to lose interest.
I heard the notebook being picked up.
Then came the sound of paper tearing.
Once.
Twice.
Again and again.
I lifted my head.
They were ripping my story apart.
The pages fell around them, scattering across the floor. Some landed beneath the desks, while others drifted toward the windows.
The boy holding the notebook tore out another handful.
"Here. Take your stupid story."
He threw the scraps at me.
His friend stomped on them as they walked away, grinding the pages beneath his shoes.
Their laughter followed them out of the classroom.
Then the door closed.
And I was alone.
I don't know how long I stayed on the floor.
Eventually, the pain became bearable enough for me to move. I pushed myself up, wincing as I straightened my back.
The classroom looked almost exactly as it had before.
The desks were still arranged in rows. The sunlight still fell across the floor. The faint sounds of students playing outside still drifted through the windows.
Nothing had changed.
Except for me.
I knelt down and began collecting the pieces of my notebook.
Some pages were torn cleanly in half. Others had been ripped into tiny fragments, the words scattered across the paper. A few had been stepped on so many times that the ink had smudged beyond recognition.
I tried to fit the pieces together.
The beginning of one sentence joined the end of another, but the words no longer made sense.
I gathered everything I could find and stuffed the scraps into my bag.
Then I walked to the washroom.
Every step hurt.
When I looked into the mirror, I barely recognized myself. My cheek was swollen, and a red mark was beginning to form where I had been punched. My uniform was rumpled, and my eyes were red.
I turned on the tap and splashed water onto my face.
For a while, I just stood there, staring at my reflection.
I should tell a teacher.
The thought came suddenly.
They had beaten me. They had destroyed my notebook. Surely, someone would do something about it.
I had to tell someone.
But then I remembered what had happened to one of my friends.
A few weeks earlier, he had gone to a teacher after being bullied by the same group. The school had punished the boys by putting them in detention.
For a brief moment, it seemed as though justice had been served.
Then, later that day, they cornered him again.
They beat him for telling.
He stayed home for three days afterward. When he returned, he told the class he had been sick.
But when we were alone, he admitted the truth.
They had threatened to do it again if he ever reported them.
I looked at myself in the mirror.
My cheek was already beginning to swell.
If I told the teachers, what would stop them from doing the same thing to me?
What if they started targeting me every day?
What if they waited for me outside school?
What if-
I shut off the tap.
I couldn't do it.
I would keep quiet.
Just as my friend had.
I would pretend nothing had happened and hope they eventually lost interest.
That was the decision I made.
And it was a decision I would regret for a long time.
When I returned to class, I told the teachers that I had gotten into a friendly scuffle with some boys.
The mark on my face was too obvious to ignore, so I claimed that someone had accidentally punched me harder than intended.
They accepted the explanation.
Or perhaps they simply didn't want to ask any more questions.
Either way, the matter ended there.
At least, as far as they knew.
The final bell rang in the afternoon.
I packed my things and left school with my head lowered, trying to avoid the curious looks of other students.
My friends asked what had happened to my face.
I told them I had gotten into a fight.
They wanted to know with whom, but I brushed off their questions.
I didn't want to explain.
I didn't want to remember.
And I certainly didn't want them to know how helpless I had been.
So I walked home alone.
The afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the road. The familiar shops and houses passed by as I made my way through the neighborhood.
Usually, the walk home was uneventful.
That day, however, my mind was elsewhere.
I kept thinking about the notebook.
About the pages scattered across the classroom floor.
About the story I had spent so many days writing.
I wondered whether I could put it back together. Perhaps some of the pages had survived. Maybe I could rewrite the parts I remembered.
But every time I thought about starting again, I remembered the way they had laughed.
The way they had torn the pages apart.
The way I had curled up on the floor, unable to do anything.
My hands tightened around the straps of my bag.
I hated them.
I hated myself even more for being afraid of them.
And as I walked, another thought began to trouble me.
Should I tell Mom?
She would be furious if she knew what had happened. She might even go to the school herself.
But then what?
The boys would find out.
They would know I had told my parents.
And if they were willing to beat me over a notebook, what would they do when they found out I had complained?
I imagined walking into school the next morning, hearing their laughter, feeling their eyes follow me.
I imagined being cornered again.
No.
I couldn't tell her.
I would keep it to myself.
Besides, it wasn't as though I had been seriously hurt.
I would be fine by tomorrow.
Mom didn't need to know.
I kept walking.
And then I saw the crowd.
There were people gathered outside my house.
At first, I thought someone had gotten into an argument. Our neighborhood wasn't particularly quiet, and a small crowd wasn't unusual.
But something about this one felt different.
People stood clustered near the entrance, speaking in hushed voices. Some were looking toward the house, while others stood with their hands covering their mouths.
Then a police car sped past me.
Its siren cut through the afternoon air.
It stopped in front of my house.
Another vehicle followed.
My pace slowed.
Something was wrong.
I couldn't explain how I knew. Perhaps it was the police cars. Perhaps it was the faces of the people gathered outside.
Or perhaps it was the sudden, terrible feeling that had settled in my stomach.
I started running.
My bag bounced against my back as I pushed through the crowd. Someone called my name, but I didn't stop.
Then I saw Dad.
He was standing near the entrance, surrounded by neighbors.
The moment he saw me, he hurried forward.
"Mark!"
He grabbed my hand.
His eyes were red.
Before I could ask him what had happened, he pulled me into his arms.
And he began to cry.
I froze.
I had never seen Dad cry like that.
Not when he was angry. Not when things went wrong. Not even when he was hurt.
He was always the one who told me everything would be fine.
But now he was holding me so tightly that it hurt, and his shoulders were shaking.
"Dad?"
He didn't answer.
"Dad, what happened?"
He tried to speak.
His lips moved, but no words came out.
Then, finally, he whispered, "She's gone."
I stared at him.
"Who?"
He held me tighter.
"Your mom..."
His voice broke.
"Your mom is no longer with us."
I waited.
I don't know what I expected him to say next.
Perhaps that she had been taken to the hospital. Perhaps that she had been hurt in an accident. Perhaps that there had been some terrible mistake.
Anything but what those words seemed to mean.
I pulled back and looked at him.
"Where is she?"
Dad covered his face.
"Dad?"
He couldn't answer.
"Where's Mom?"
He began crying harder.
I looked past him, toward the house.
The front door was open. A police officer stood near the entrance, speaking to one of the neighbors. People were moving in and out, their faces pale and solemn.
I couldn't understand why.
"Can I go see her?"
Dad grabbed me again.
"No."
"Why?"
"Mark, please..."
"But where is she?"
He shook his head.
I looked at the house.
Maybe she was hurt.
That was what I decided.
She had to be hurt.
People were crying because she was hurt. The police were there because she was hurt. Dad was crying because she was hurt.
That made sense.
Death didn't.
I knew what death was. I had seen it in movies, read about it in books, and heard adults talk about it.
But my mother?
No.
My mother had woken me up that morning.
She had complained about me getting out of bed late.
She had told me to leave my door open so she could come in and drag me out of bed.
I had spoken to her only hours ago.
People who did those things didn't simply disappear.
At least, that was what I believed.
I couldn't make the two versions of her fit together.
The mother who had stood outside my bedroom that morning couldn't be the same person everyone was crying over.
It didn't make sense.
And because it didn't make sense, I couldn't accept it.
I stood there, listening to Dad cry, waiting for someone to explain what was really happening.
No one did.
Later, Dad told me what had happened.
There had been a home invasion.
Someone had broken into our house while Mom was alone. I don't know whether they had come looking for something or whether they had planned to hurt her from the beginning.
All I knew was that they had shot her four times before fleeing the scene.
Four times.
I remember those words more clearly than anything else he told me.
The neighbors had heard the gunshots. They had rushed outside, gathered in front of our house, and called the police. Someone had called Dad, too.
He had been away when it happened.
The moment he received the call, he drove home as fast as he could.
He found her lying on the floor of their bedroom, covered in blood.
The neighbors had to pull him away from her.
That was when he saw me running toward the house.
I listened as he explained everything, but I couldn't bring myself to ask any questions.
I didn't ask who had done it.
I didn't ask why.
I didn't ask whether she had suffered.
I couldn't even bring myself to ask if she had said anything before she died.
I just sat there, staring at the floor, listening to my father's voice break as he recounted the worst day of his life.
Four times.
I kept repeating those words in my head.
Four times.
I tried to imagine what it meant, but every time I did, my mind went blank.
It was as though those words belonged to a story I was reading about someone else's life.
Someone else's mother.
Someone else's father.
Someone else's home.
Not mine.
Not ours.
That night, I waited for her to come home.
I don't remember consciously deciding to wait. I simply found myself looking toward the bedroom door whenever I heard footsteps.
Every time someone entered the house, I looked up.
Every time I heard a woman's voice, I turned my head.
And every time, it was someone else.
I didn't cry.
I didn't scream.
I didn't even feel particularly sad.
I just felt empty.
People came to the house throughout the night. Relatives, neighbors, and acquaintances filled the rooms, speaking in low voices. Some cried openly. Others sat beside Dad and tried to comfort him.
I watched them from a corner.
Every now and then, someone would approach me, kneel beside me, and say something about how sorry they were.
I hated those words.
Sorry for what?
I wanted to ask them.
But I didn't.
I would simply nod and look away.
They all seemed to understand something that I didn't.
And I hated that, too.
We held the funeral in our village.
The journey there passed in a blur. I remember sitting beside Dad, watching the familiar roads give way to stretches of countryside. I remember the hills in the distance and the houses scattered along the roadside.
I remember the silence inside the vehicle.
But I don't remember much else.
By the time we arrived, relatives and villagers had already gathered. People came to offer their condolences, and the house was filled with the quiet murmur of prayers and conversations.
I stayed close to Dad.
He looked exhausted.
His eyes were swollen from crying, and he barely spoke to anyone unless they addressed him first. Sometimes, I would catch him staring into nothing, as though he had forgotten where he was.
I wanted to say something to him.
Anything.
But what could I possibly say?
I had lost my mother.
He had lost his wife.
And neither of us knew how to live with that.
When the time came, I stood among the people gathered for the burial.
I watched as they lowered the coffin.
People around me were crying.
Someone beside me whispered a prayer.
I stared at the coffin as it disappeared from view.
I waited for something to happen.
For the world to stop.
For someone to tell me that this was all a mistake.
For Mom to come out and scold everyone for making such a fuss.
But nothing happened.
The burial continued.
The prayers ended.
People began to leave.
And my mother remained beneath the earth.
I remember standing there long after most of the others had walked away.
I couldn't understand why everyone was leaving.
How could they?
How could they simply turn around and go home?
Didn't they know she was still there?
Didn't they know that if they left, she would be alone?
I wanted to stay.
I wanted to sit beside her and wait until she woke up.
But Dad eventually came to me and placed a hand on my shoulder.
"Come on, Mark."
I looked at him.
"Where are we going?"
He hesitated.
"Home."
I looked back at the grave.
Then I followed him.
I don't remember what I felt during the journey back.
I don't remember whether I cried that night.
I don't remember when I finally fell asleep.
But I remember waking up the next morning and, for a brief moment, forgetting everything.
I remember turning toward the door, expecting to hear her voice.
Then the memory returned.
And I was fourteen years old again, standing in a world that no longer made sense.
A few days later, Dad told me that we would be moving to my grandparents' village.
"We'll stay with them for a while," he said. "It'll be better for us."
I nodded.
I didn't argue.
There was nothing left for me in that house.
Every room reminded me of her. Every familiar object seemed to carry a piece of her that I couldn't bear to look at for too long.
And yet, leaving felt strange.
It meant leaving behind the place where I had grown up. The streets I had walked every morning. The little shops I passed on my way to school.
It meant leaving my friends.
But there was another reason I didn't mind moving.
I would finally be free of those boys.
I wouldn't have to see them in the corridors or worry about what they might do to me.
I wouldn't have to hide my notebook whenever someone approached my desk.
I wouldn't have to spend every morning wondering whether that day would be worse than the last.
In a way, I was relieved.
The thought made me feel guilty.
How could I be relieved when my mother was dead?
How could I feel even the slightest bit of happiness when Dad could barely bring himself to speak?
I pushed those thoughts aside.
I was fourteen.
I didn't know what I was supposed to feel.
I only knew that I didn't want to stay.
So we packed our belongings, locked the house, and left.
As the vehicle pulled away, I looked through the window at the neighborhood disappearing behind us.
I thought about my friends.
I wondered whether they would miss me.
I wondered whether they would ever find out why I had left.
I wondered whether I would ever return.
Then the road curved, and the house disappeared from view.
I turned away from the window.
And just like that, the life I had known was left behind.
"That's how it happened."
I fell silent.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
The room around me seemed unusually quiet. I could hear the faint hum of the fan overhead and the distant sound of traffic outside.
My friend sat across from me, his hands resting on his knees.
He hadn't interrupted me once.
I looked down at my hands.
"That's pretty much everything I remember about that day."
He hesitated before speaking.
"Mark..."
I looked up.
"Why didn't you ever tell me?"
I gave him a small, humorless smile.
"I don't know."
And that was the truth.
I had spent years keeping that memory to myself. I had told myself that there was no point in bringing it up, that it had happened a long time ago, that talking about it wouldn't change anything.
But the truth was much simpler.
I had never really known how to talk about it.
Even now, at nineteen, I couldn't say that I fully understood what had happened to me that day.
I understood the facts.
I knew how my mother had died. I knew what my father had seen. I knew why we had left our home and why I had never returned to the life I once knew.
But understanding the facts and accepting them were two entirely different things.
Sometimes, I could go an entire day without thinking about her.
Then something as insignificant as a familiar voice or the smell of a particular dish would bring her back to me.
I would remember her standing outside my bedroom door.
I would remember the way she complained about my sleeping habits.
I would remember the things I had wanted to tell her but never got the chance to.
And for a moment, I would forget that she was gone.
Then I would remember.
It was always the same.
A brief moment of happiness, followed by the realization that it belonged to a life I could never return to.
My friend leaned forward.
"Do you still think about her?"
I stared at the floor.
"Every day."
The answer came more easily than I expected.
He didn't say anything after that.
Neither did I.
For a while, we simply sat there, letting the silence settle between us.
Then I looked toward the window.
The sky was turning orange as the sun sank behind the buildings. People were returning home, and the streets were beginning to fill with the familiar sounds of the evening.
Somewhere, a mother was probably calling her child in for dinner.
Somewhere, a boy was probably lying in bed, pretending not to hear his mother knocking on his door.
I closed my eyes.
For a moment, I could almost hear her voice again.
Hey, Mark. Wake up, or you'll be late for school.
I smiled faintly.
Then I opened my eyes.
And the world was quiet again.