He'd always kept his head down.
Was there a time when Rowan, out of his frustration, had decided to look straight into the eye of his problems and not cower? Definitely not. Not in this hell hole. Kingstown Middle School. He'd spent every school hour being the victim of every blame, every blow, every visit to the infirmary.
Avoiding bullies had worked in the worst way possible. Every time he decided not to engage and just walk away from trouble, his bullies would pull him back by the collar and land a hit on his face even before he could resist. The strategy of invisibility, tried and failed, repeatedly.
He'd tolerated it all. That was the only option he had anyway. Someone as weak as him couldn't do anything. He couldn't start a fight he knew he would definitely lose. He couldn't walk up to the staff room and report his bullies — they would only make his school life worse if he did.
But then there was one thing he could do. He could fight back. Or at least, learn how to. Rowan had stopped by the school library one too many times just to grab another of Bruce Lee's books. Every last page had kept him coming back. Every word had given him reason to invest in his physical appearance.
Pushups. Squats. Sprints. He'd managed this consistently for a week or two, channelling in the anger of being beaten. That was the purpose — to become strong enough. Because apparently, having good grades alone wasn't enough to beat bullies.
And then, one day, everything stopped.
He was at his seat as usual, head down, reading through Bruce's book — the Tao of Jeet Kune Do — pausing way too long on one particular line.
"The best fighter is never angry." He read it out, his voice low enough so as not to attract trouble.
Then his thoughts drifted. He'd seen cases where the best fighter in a scenario was the one with all the cooped-up experience. The one who fought through the pain in him. Those cases were usually common in revenge tropes. And he knew for a fact that people who fought for revenge had the most brutal attacks.
So, why?
"Hey, errand boy!"
Jackson Brown. Even in his sleep, Rowan could recognise that voice anytime. Jackson was his classmate and also his main assailant. They called him Jackson Brown not just because his hair and eyes were brown, but because of the freckles on his cheeks that gave his face a browner edge.
At first meet, one would look at his face and assume he was just another cheeky loner. But it was the other way around. Jackson was a bully. He'd been the class's biggest bully since seventh grade, and somehow he'd maintained that exact same title for over two years. Consistency, if nothing else.
Rowan was seemingly his favourite person to bother now. From little things like random finger nudges to his forehead, to capital activities like making him run errands. He'd even given Rowan a nickname.
Errand boy.
"Hey, you deaf?" Jackson must've felt off-balanced by Rowan ignoring him. Because Rowan never did. Up until now, Rowan had always been his obedient little slave. He stood and walked up to him, scoffing as Rowan kept his eyes on his book. "You daring me right now?"
Rowan didn't reply. Neither did he move. His head remained down. His body frozen in one position like he'd been hit with a petrification dose. For once in his life, he wanted to stop being the victim. To stop being at their beck and call. Maybe — just maybe — if he ignored Jackson long enough, he would eventually walk away.
At least, that was how he assumed it was supposed to go. But Jackson never walked away. Without permission, he grabbed a water bottle from the next desk, cranked it open, and let it out on Rowan's hair without hesitation.
Rowan's hair wasn't the only thing that got soaked. His clothes. His pants. And worst of all, Bruce Lee's book. He raised the book up slowly, trying to process whatever storm was going on inside him at that moment. Something in him imagined standing up and grabbing Jackson by the throat, strangling him until he was close to death.
But then Bruce Lee's quote resounded in his mind. The best fighter is never angry. He didn't know everything about immediate reactions. But Bruce Lee advised never to react on emotional impulse. The man definitely knew better than he did.
He dropped the book on his desk. Heaved a long, silent breath as he took in the mocking laughter of his classmates. He stood slowly, turned, about to head out towards the bathroom — and then Jackson spoke.
"The Tao of Jeet Kune Do." He was holding the book up. "Bruce Lee?" He smiled mischievously at Rowan. "Don't tell me... are you trying to learn how to fight?"
Rowan's frown deepened. His fists clenched. He watched, timing out his reaction, as Jackson raised the book and displayed it to the entire class.
"Hey, everyone! The errand boy wants to learn to fight!" The class laughed. They always did. Whether the context was funny or not, they always forced their laughter when it was time to mock. "Isn't that crazy?"
"Give that back." Rowan warned, fists clenching harder.
"Oh, I'm so scared." Jackson said emphatically, a sarcastic shiver in his tone. "Please don't hurt me with one of your badass Kung Fu moves."
The class laughed.
"I'm not joking, Jackson. Give it back." Rowan stretched out his hand, inwardly praying that for once in two years, Jackson would ditch his default and choose peace instead.
He'd already opened just enough of a slot for that.
"Is this piece of crap that important to you?" Jackson's eyes moved with something darker. "Come get it then."
Before Rowan could take another step, Jackson ripped the book in half. Then both halves in quarters. He continued ripping until all that was left were micro pieces of paper. He smiled and threw the torn pieces at Rowan. The papers showered down on him like a small confetti.
"There you go." Jackson said, satisfaction fully loaded into his tone. "Happy reading—"
Rowan moved without hesitation. And definitely without a second thought process. He grabbed Jackson by the torso and slammed him against the class board. Jackson groaned, smashing his fists continuously against Rowan's back. But Rowan didn't feel anything. Not at that moment. He was way too angry to register the pain.
He jammed his arm against Jackson's torso, issuing something that seemed like a blow but landed weaker than intended. The whole class murmured and paved way as Rowan stumbled towards the lockers. His back hit the edge first, but he stood right back up like nothing had happened.
He came at Jackson again, fists ready to strike him anywhere they landed. Jackson dodged, and directed a blow of his own. It landed on Rowan's jaw, causing his lips to bleed.
"You fucker." Jackson wheezed through heavy breathing. "Did you really think you could take me on?"
Rowan didn't reply. He grabbed Jackson's torso again, this time adding pressure until the ground came up to both of them. Then he pounced on him, grabbing his collar with one hand, swiping a blow across his face with the other.
Then again, this time harder across his temple. Again. Jackson looked like he could barely hold himself together. His hands had stopped moving toward defence. His chest huffed in sheer, non-verbal panic.
Then he groaned. Loud and abrupt, throwing his hand up toward Rowan. Then something fast and invisible gripped Rowan, throwing him off balance and into the wall across the window.
The moment his back hit the wall, everything else landed alongside. His head against debris. His consciousness. And then, darkness joined.
***
"No, I'm sure you guys are mistaken." The voice of a frustrated mother. "My boy... Rowan would never do such a thing. I'm not going to buy into what you're saying."
Mrs Hale wasn't the kind of person to open her ears to external judgement — especially when it concerned her own family.
Twelve years. She'd spent twelve years bringing Rowan up. Even after his father had gotten into a fight purposely just to find a reason to abandon them — she'd still waited. Still watched him grow through all of that. Alone. Not that she'd had a better choice, or any choice at all.
And in all their time together, she'd registered just enough about her son's aesthetic. He was calm. Way too calm. He mostly boxed in his problems and smiled when she asked him how school went.
At first, his smile had worked against her. But it didn't take too long for her to figure it out eventually. Scratch marks he claimed he got from playing volleyball. The look of fear in his eyes that he still couldn't hide no matter how much he told her he was fine.
She'd called the school multiple times. Even driven one mile there once, storming into the principal's office without permission, and questioned the chances of her son being bullied. There was nothing to show for it, however. Even after a brief discussion with his classmates, what she'd seen — or what they'd tried to make her believe — was the hospitality of Kingstown Middle School students.
But of course, she wasn't stupid. She'd wanted to transfer Rowan. Had already begun making the calls. But then Rowan had pleaded with her to let him finish middle school first. After all, he only had less than six months left there. Until then, he'd promised to stay out of trouble.
Guess he forgot. Or maybe that choice wasn't up to him to make anyway.
And now, in the middle of a school council meeting, Rowan was suddenly the person he never was. A bully. Alleged of assault. And according to the school authorities, a tyrant.
"Mrs Hale, we are not asking you to buy our explanation." The principal's voice was firm, almost rude. "Rowan here was responsible for hurting Jackson. And apparently, he doesn't intend to explain himself. How do you expect us to handle that?"
"Why are we still doing this?" A woman — fluffy brown hair, darker freckles — rose up and slammed her hands against the table. Jackson's mother. "I want this boy expelled immediately, or I'm going to file a lawsuit against the school!"
"Calm down, ma'am." The principal raised his hands, gesturing for her to take a seat. Then he stared straight at Rowan. "I'm going to ask you for the last time, Rowan. Were you or were you not responsible for bullying your classmate, Jackson?"
Rowan raised his head slightly, hands clasped and fidgeting as they rested on the table. Then his eyes met Jackson's — sitting directly across from him. He remained like that for a while, reading into the stare. Something in it had consequences. Consequences for when he spilled the actual truth.
"Rowan?"
"I..." He paused, eyes dropping to his lap. "I'm the one who hurt Jackson." He muttered, barely sure of his own words. "I'm the one who bullied him."