The unseen foot snagged my ankle, and I went down in a heap on the dirt street. Books went flying, sending small clouds of dust into the air when they landed. I scrambled to retrieve them before somebody else decided to relieve me of the burden. I had no idea of whose foot had caught me, or whether it was an accident or deliberate. And I didn’t care. The only thing I wanted was to get home as quickly as I could and forget about school for a few hours.

That wasn’t about to happen.

As I reached for my last book, a boot came down on top of it, pinning the pages to the ground. Startled, I jerked my hand back and looked up from the ground to the owner of the foot. Had I been standing, I no doubt would have looked down at him – I’ve always been tall, even if I was a bit scrawny at that time – but crouched as I was, he made for an imposing figure.

“Hey, Dirtface,” he said with a crooked smile on his face.

“Dirtface? What-” My question was interrupted as another foot caught me between the shoulder blades. My books went flying yet again, and I sprawled in the street, the weight on my back grinding my face into the ground.

“Good one, Ro,” the voice from above me said. “Dirtface, ha.” He stepped a little harder as if to make his point. From the weaselly tone, it had to be Fen, Ro’s most frequent accomplice.

I never knew what made them leave, but one moment they were there, laughing, and the next they were gone. I suspect a teacher had passed by, or some other authority figure, but by the time I had picked myself up from the ground, the street was empty.

That wasn’t the first time such a thing had happened, and it was far from the last. For years, I endured the abuse silently. It wasn’t just Ro and Fen, either. Anybody who needed a scapegoat or a punching bag came to me. Rarely a day went by that I came home without a new bruise or scrape.

It wasn’t until I was ten years old that I decided to do something about it.

There were three of them this time. No doubt their numbers gave them confidence – I didn’t realize it, but I had a frightening look to me. I towered over any one of them, and my shoulders were nearly as wide as any two.

I’m not sure exactly what happened, but instead of cowering and trying to protect my head as I usually did, I stood my ground and fought back. I must have taken them by surprise, because a couple of minutes later they were scrambling to be the first to get away. One of them had suffered a bloody nose, and my stomach turned at the sight of the blood on my hand. Trying not to retch, I bent and scrubbed it on the ground.

After news of the fight spread, the ones who used to pick on me turned to easier targets.

For a time, I was happy. I was alone – nobody had dared be my friend out of fear of reflected rage, and the fear hadn’t yet worn off – but content. Naturally, this only lasted a couple of weeks.

Guilt began to creep into my mind. I don’t know why – it didn’t seem to make sense to me. I should have been be happy that the bullies weren’t picking on me anymore. But I couldn’t help thinking that I’d simply passed the burden on to others who might not be able to handle it. It didn’t seem fair. It didn’t seem right.

It was only twelve days after I won that first fight that I got involved in my second.

The bullies had changed, but the scene was always the same. I almost missed it, but the flicker of movement as a boy was tossed into the corner where two brick walls joined caught my eye, and I paused. Part of me wanted to keep moving, to ignore what I knew was happening. But there was another part, one that said I had the ability to do something about it, and I couldn’t just pretend I wasn’t there. You can guess which part ended up being the stronger.

This fight remains slightly clearer in my mind – perhaps because I had the chance to plan a bit of it out beforehand. The two boys didn’t notice my approach as I placed my books on the ground and came up behind them. The taunts and insults in their voices as they towered over the boy crouching in the corner was more than I could stand.

There are generally two types of bullies. First, there’s the mouthpiece – generally the smarter of the two, but usually also smaller. When alone, this type relies on insults, rumours and other devious and underhanded tactics to whittle down the victim’s self-esteem. The other kind is the muscle. Large and powerful, they rely on their strength to make the victim submit. While each is dangerous on their own, when one of each type join together, the combination can be devastating. It was this combination that I had to deal with.

Fortunately, I had the element of surprise.

My hands caught the back of the larger bully’s coat, and I pushed with all the strength I could muster. What was strange was I barely seemed to touch him before he flew forwards and his head connected with the brick. He stumbled, spun and staggered hard against the wall, blood streaming from a large gash above his eye.

I swallowed hard and avoided looking at him. By the way his eyes were struggling to focus, I knew I had at least a few moments before I had to deal with him again. Frozen, the smaller bully stared at me in shock. I caught the front of his coat in two hands and shoved him up against the wall. The back of his head connected – not as hard as I had hoped, but enough to make him wince. Holding him there, I gave him my best glare for a long moment before throwing him aside.

Surprisingly, my little show was enough. The mouthpiece was frightened enough to back off without saying anything, and the muscle still too dazed to try anything. Neither said so much as a word as they backed away, but the looks they flashed my way promised I would see them again. Or, more likely, not see them coming. Moments later, the victim and I were alone.