At 11

That is the beginning. At 11. You went out of the classroom. My thoughts also followed you. The teacher, grabbing hold of my back collar, lifted me, like a little cat, and chucked me out of the window. I lay in a ditch full of mud, opening my eyes of grievance and shame, flowing with stinking water and tears, looking at your motionless eyes inside the window. That is not the fact. You don’t have memory. The other person also doesn’t remember. No one ever mentions it. You were struck down on the ground, your face copping a scorching palm, a few strands of your hair pulled off, a group of familiar faces crowding closer, more than a dozen eyes opened to their full roundness, looking at your body wriggling in the dust. You stood up, brushing down the dust, and walked side by side with him, followed by a group of onlookers. You said in your heart: Yes, there’s nothing you can do about it. How can I fight him? But, with hatred, you said, through your mouth: Wait and see! See what? You lost. If you are lost, you are lost. What more can you say?

十一岁

那是初始。十一岁。你出了教室，我的思绪也跟着走了。老师象拎一只小猫，揪住我的后领，只轻轻一提，便把我扔出窗外。我睡在浑身是泥的阴沟中，委屈、羞辱、睁着臭水和泪水交流的眼睛，看着窗内你凝然不动的眼睛。那不是事实。你并没记忆。另一个人也不记得。谁也不曾提起。你被打倒在地，脸上火辣辣地挨了一巴掌，头发被扯掉了几绺，一群熟识的面孔围过来，十几双睁得溜圆的眼睛，看着你在灰尘中蠕动的身子。你站起身，拍拍灰尘，竟然和他并排走着。后面尾随一群看热闹的头。你在心里说，是的，没办法的事，我怎么打得过他？然而你嘴上却恨恨地，说，等着瞧吧！瞧什么？你输了！输了就是输了，有什么好讲的！