October 30, 2020:

I'm walking my friend's little brother home from school.

Why? I no longer recall. In memory there's only the image of the blacktop of the schoolyard, the high chain-link fence, and the school bully vectoring rapidly from the left.

He's a roly-poly little sausage with a ginger crewcut and missing front teeth. He's smirking 'cos he thinks he's got us. My friend's little brother is in second grade, and although I'm in sixth, my broken right arm is in cast and sling. So he's got a runt and a gimp to abuse as he sees fit.

He doesn't, though. Before he can say a word I slam him in the jaw with the elbow of my cast, so that he spits a side tooth or two and runs away screaming.

This is a very rare instance of me fighting. In all my life I've only ever had maybe five fights. They were all bullies. I've only ever fought bullies. And then only when they were bullying others. I mostly never cared if bullies came for me. Apart from one time in third grade I preferred running away. That was a bully and I bloodied him, too. Those I fought, a very small number, were picking on younger kids, or kids who for some reason were unable to defend themselves, like the spastic boy in high school I ran across a lunch court to defend. In most cases I shoved the bad guy rather than hitting, 'cos I really didn't want to hurt anyone, even the bullies. Make them stop, make them run away. That's plenty.

This time though I slam the fucker good, because I'm sick of his shit which has gone on for three years, and I love my friend, this little boy's older sister, and he's her little brother, and hands fucking off.

I don't remember why I walked him home. Maybe it was specifically to defend him from the ginger sausage. That would make sense. Mark the Defender! I like the image.