Ok, yall. I'm a writer myself, hence my passion is putting my life,stories, and emotions down on paper (or rather screen haha!) and sharing it with whoever may be reading it (is anybody out there?)
Above all things I love when other people write, and I thoroughly encourage anyone and everyone to do so. For the first time on Hunting Hobbits, I'm displaying someone else's work. I'd like to note that in no way did I alter or edit his writing. If you'd like to get a piece of art out there, but either lack the time or just don't want to do this type of thing everyday, send me a message and I'll be happy to post it on here. Art is good for the soul, and if I can lift your soul, I'm all for it =)
I can be reached here http://www.facebook.com/HuntingHobbits via message. Feel free to send any work you have there =) (Visual and musical art is welcome as well.)
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Disclaimer: This work is in genre called non-fiction. Names have been changed and some parts of the event have been exaggerated for the sake of emphasis. But the gist of the story is true. It did happen. To me. Word for word. So enjoy. A part of my life.
P.S. Thanks to Brittany Lyle for letting me post this on her blog :)
We all do things that we regret, whether that is stealing candy from a store or lying to your parents so you can get out of trouble. I’ve done those before, countless times. It’s whether you learn from them or not that counts. My dad always told me that. The consequence has to outweigh the behavior. That’s what he drilled into my brain every time I do something that I’ll regret later on. There is one thing that in my whole entire life that I regretted. I regret it to this day and I wished I never did it. I gave in to peer pressure.
There’s just something about this topic that gets people riled up. Maybe it’s the fact that everyone went through this at least once in their lifetime. High school seems to be the most discussed place as to where it happens. With all the cliques and groups scattered throughout this taste of the real world, it only feels natural that we get the urge to somehow please our peers whenever we walk through the worn-down walkways of our own high school. Each clique has different images to maintain; they also have different agendas.
The real world works the same. Day in and day out, we make decisions based on the beaten path. Pressure from friends force you to take on habits you know you’ll regret later in life. Pressure from colleagues force you to take actions that you know will have a serious consequence on your future. Yet, you still do it. Why?
It could be the feeling of being part of something. I was part of a rebellious group in high school. Every day before school we held fights in the back of the church as an initiation rite. I was supposed to fight someone from school and beat the hell out of that person. The problem was that I was supposed to fight someone who I considered a friend. Because of my inside connections with the leader of the group, I was able to choose who I would fight. I picked the person who I felt was a complete coward.
It was a bright sunny day. The wind whispered sweet nothings to the trees and the trees responded back with the same whispers. Through the dust-covered hallway, I saw my friend, Francis, drink out of the porcelain water fountain. He was unaware of what would happen to him five minutes from the time the water hit his throat. I felt sorry for the guy. He wore his favorite shirt, a bright yellow tee with a sideways smiley-face referencing an emoticon. One of the guys shoved me from behind, forcing me to walk slowly towards my future opponent. When Francis stood up to look at me, there was a shiny face of optimism genuinely beaming. It almost broke my heart to do this, but I knew I had to do it, for my sake.
“Hey, Robin! What’s up?”
With an internal breath of air, I gave him my fiercest stare and roughly grabbed the cuffs of his shirt. “Fucking dipshit. Just shut the fuck up and listen to what I goddamn say. You; Me; Today; after school; back of the fucking church. ” his eyes widened frighteningly at those words, “you’re gonna get your fucking ass handed to you backwards!” I pushed him roughly towards the brick wall of the hallway, and at that moment, the other guys circled around us. They all snickered cruelly, pushing Francis around like a sack of potatoes. I fed to this whole frenzy like a monkey in a riled-up zoo.
For a moment though, as I watched my friend get tossed around like a salad, my heart felt like a hook tugged on its innards and it was trying to pull itself away from me, as if to trying to disassociate itself with my body. My throat constricted in the way that it does when I witness heartbreaking scene. As of that moment, I was aware of what I was actually doing, but I didn’t care. I was in this situation deep enough that I couldn’t back out of it. Pushing my way through my cohorts, I went straight to Francis and spoke to him in an authoritative and bullying manner, “Remember. Fucker. If you don’t show up there, don’t bother going to school.” With that statement, I walked away from the situation, leaving Francis at the hands of the other guys. I knew I wasn’t doing the right thing. Yet, I still did it. Why? I wanted to feel like I belonged.
But it’s not just that. It wasn’t just the accomplishment. It wasn’t just the feeling of belonging. These guys had something special that I didn’t have. They had something that would explain why they got the girls, the respect, and the It factor. They were also willing to let me be a part of it as long as I did what they told me to do.
As the day slowly went by, it started to rain. Before the bell rang for the end of class, I walked outside and stood in the middle of a grassy patch. Big globs of teardrops from the clouds fell upon my stressed face, cascading down my body into the cut grass of the school grounds. I closed my eyes for a brief moment to engulf myself with the sensory relief the wet rain offered: The temporary lift the cold water gave me as it ran down my back; the fresh breeze of wet wind hitting my face giving off a sense of detachment from the worries of life; the rhythmic plip-plop of the teardrops hitting the ground with the purpose that Mother Nature gave them; the soft tingle that made my hair stand on ends as the chill enveloped me with its cold and comforting embraced; ¬I felt it all.
I knew this moment of respite was short-lived, because then my peers pulled me out of school and onto the weedy ruins of an old church. It is said that a church is a symbol for sanctuary and protection for people in need of it. With all its meaning, this church, for that time, was considered a location for fights. It had an old rotten feeling about it. Thick iron spikes poked out of its walls in a kind of warning for those who go near it. Every single one of the frosted glasses that emblazoned different figures were either smashed by rocks or vandalized with graffiti. The worn-out paint slowly peeled out to reveal damp red bricks that made the foundation of this church. Once poised to be one of the few elegant churches in the neighborhood, it was left abandoned by the government that failed to give it an appropriate amount of funding.
With its neglected atmosphere, it was a perfect place to set up fights. By the time I arrived at the place, there were already other students sitting up at the rusty railings by the church. Others were occupied with setting places for which they can view the fight in a comfortable place. The people around pumped me up, in their own way. One of them mocked my ego and my manhood in a way that was supposed to make me so mad that I would hit someone. Another one continuously reminded me that if I happened to punk out of this fight, I would forever be considered as the lowest of the low at school.
A loud noise emanated from the front of the church and seconds after, out came Francis being pulled by two guys. His eyes were etched in fear as he tried to release himself from the vice-like grip the two guys had on him. As he was shoved into the middle of the area, shouts from the surrounding students grew louder and louder. It felt like I was in a coliseum, the emperor judging me from a throne hundreds of feet above ground. Francis and I were two gladiators, fighting for something that wasn’t worth a damn.
What happened next was a blur of events. I couldn’t remember what happened during the fight. There were lots of red, presumably blood. I didn’t feel anything, just an acute feeling of hesitation and repulsion over my actions. Maybe it’s because I tried hard all these years to forget about that memory. That sickening memory where I laid down my fists upon a reluctant and former friend, stuck with me to this day yet I couldn’t even vividly recreate the events in my head.
They say that a person cannot remember all the details of a fight that he or she got involved in. Adrenaline does that to you. The adrenaline level in a person obviously heightens in a stressful situation. You get tunnel vision, which means that your vision gets much focused. Your hearing gets worse, which could explain the blurriness of sounds that surrounded me that time. Your breathing goes faster, which means that blood pumps through your head faster. Your brain goes to overdrive and works twice as hard as it should be. This could be why I couldn’t the details vividly as I wished. You’re hands and legs get shaky from the blood overdrive. I probably tried to shake off the feeling by forming my fingers to fists and pounding the living crap out of my friend.
There was one thing that I remembered excruciatingly clear throughout the fight. Blood. Lots of it. The next thing I noticed was silence. It was a scary silence, followed by a repeated series of heavings that emanated from my chest. I looked down upon Francis to find him a bloody mess.
His face was blotched with cuts and bruises that was a result from repeated beatings with my fists. The favorite shirt that featured the smiley-face was completely ripped, leaving shreds of fabric all over the floor along with splashes of blood. The chest featured purple bruises and wounds that introduced more blood to the outside world. He was a defeated man, but did he ever really put up a fight?
Ashamed of my own actions, I looked away from the beaten guy and stared down the leader of the group, giving him the message I did it. With the demeanor of a man who had no respect for himself, I walked away from the place. I kept thinking about everything that happened as I walked past concrete rows of houses on my way home. The rain still kept on pouring, producing big brown puddles that overflowed to the drainage pipes. As drips of liquid fell down from above, I looked up at the sky, dark and foreboding and wondered to myself, was it worth it?
Those four words clunked inside my head as I went inside my home, ventured to my dark, littered room and laid down on the dirty, stained bed. This whole series of events changed my perspective in life. I was no longer the guy who would do anything to belong. There was no longer innocence in my heart, nor gullibility towards the world. I did an act to impress my fellow peers, yet at what cost? I lost the genuine friendship of a fellow companion and threw away whatever self-esteem I had in me went out the door. This happened 5 years ago.
Now that I sit here, in my coffee-stained desk with my oversized mug writing about this story that emanated from deep inside me, I still think about the repercussions that followed on that day. As it turned out, my former friend never told anyone about the fight. However, our friendship never got repaired and everyone who saw the fight picked on him until he had to transfer to another school. I never returned to the gang. I never hung out with anyone else. Instead, I stayed a loner through the rest of that year, just cruising by on my classes and not bothering anyone. I didn’t get picked on because they saw what I did to Francis back at the church. When the school year ended, I transferred out of school and moved to the United States.
My past could have been a whole different story if it wasn’t for that event. I kept thinking to myself, Why did I do it? I was being dumb. Peer pressure got to me. My behavior brought a serious consequence which came in the form of my past haunting me. It was a punishment that marked me, but was it harsh enough. The only thing that still comes up to my mind was, if presented with a similar situation, wondering if I would still make the same decision. Probably not. But really, in a world where everything happens with influence and connections, anything can happen.
Well sh*t, a little late, but this was written by Robin Letim. I thought I had seen him address himself, but I suppose not. Sorry!
Above all things I love when other people write, and I thoroughly encourage anyone and everyone to do so. For the first time on Hunting Hobbits, I'm displaying someone else's work. I'd like to note that in no way did I alter or edit his writing. If you'd like to get a piece of art out there, but either lack the time or just don't want to do this type of thing everyday, send me a message and I'll be happy to post it on here. Art is good for the soul, and if I can lift your soul, I'm all for it =)
I can be reached here http://www.facebook.com/HuntingHobbits via message. Feel free to send any work you have there =) (Visual and musical art is welcome as well.)
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Disclaimer: This work is in genre called non-fiction. Names have been changed and some parts of the event have been exaggerated for the sake of emphasis. But the gist of the story is true. It did happen. To me. Word for word. So enjoy. A part of my life.
P.S. Thanks to Brittany Lyle for letting me post this on her blog :)
We all do things that we regret, whether that is stealing candy from a store or lying to your parents so you can get out of trouble. I’ve done those before, countless times. It’s whether you learn from them or not that counts. My dad always told me that. The consequence has to outweigh the behavior. That’s what he drilled into my brain every time I do something that I’ll regret later on. There is one thing that in my whole entire life that I regretted. I regret it to this day and I wished I never did it. I gave in to peer pressure.
There’s just something about this topic that gets people riled up. Maybe it’s the fact that everyone went through this at least once in their lifetime. High school seems to be the most discussed place as to where it happens. With all the cliques and groups scattered throughout this taste of the real world, it only feels natural that we get the urge to somehow please our peers whenever we walk through the worn-down walkways of our own high school. Each clique has different images to maintain; they also have different agendas.
The real world works the same. Day in and day out, we make decisions based on the beaten path. Pressure from friends force you to take on habits you know you’ll regret later in life. Pressure from colleagues force you to take actions that you know will have a serious consequence on your future. Yet, you still do it. Why?
It could be the feeling of being part of something. I was part of a rebellious group in high school. Every day before school we held fights in the back of the church as an initiation rite. I was supposed to fight someone from school and beat the hell out of that person. The problem was that I was supposed to fight someone who I considered a friend. Because of my inside connections with the leader of the group, I was able to choose who I would fight. I picked the person who I felt was a complete coward.
It was a bright sunny day. The wind whispered sweet nothings to the trees and the trees responded back with the same whispers. Through the dust-covered hallway, I saw my friend, Francis, drink out of the porcelain water fountain. He was unaware of what would happen to him five minutes from the time the water hit his throat. I felt sorry for the guy. He wore his favorite shirt, a bright yellow tee with a sideways smiley-face referencing an emoticon. One of the guys shoved me from behind, forcing me to walk slowly towards my future opponent. When Francis stood up to look at me, there was a shiny face of optimism genuinely beaming. It almost broke my heart to do this, but I knew I had to do it, for my sake.
“Hey, Robin! What’s up?”
With an internal breath of air, I gave him my fiercest stare and roughly grabbed the cuffs of his shirt. “Fucking dipshit. Just shut the fuck up and listen to what I goddamn say. You; Me; Today; after school; back of the fucking church. ” his eyes widened frighteningly at those words, “you’re gonna get your fucking ass handed to you backwards!” I pushed him roughly towards the brick wall of the hallway, and at that moment, the other guys circled around us. They all snickered cruelly, pushing Francis around like a sack of potatoes. I fed to this whole frenzy like a monkey in a riled-up zoo.
For a moment though, as I watched my friend get tossed around like a salad, my heart felt like a hook tugged on its innards and it was trying to pull itself away from me, as if to trying to disassociate itself with my body. My throat constricted in the way that it does when I witness heartbreaking scene. As of that moment, I was aware of what I was actually doing, but I didn’t care. I was in this situation deep enough that I couldn’t back out of it. Pushing my way through my cohorts, I went straight to Francis and spoke to him in an authoritative and bullying manner, “Remember. Fucker. If you don’t show up there, don’t bother going to school.” With that statement, I walked away from the situation, leaving Francis at the hands of the other guys. I knew I wasn’t doing the right thing. Yet, I still did it. Why? I wanted to feel like I belonged.
But it’s not just that. It wasn’t just the accomplishment. It wasn’t just the feeling of belonging. These guys had something special that I didn’t have. They had something that would explain why they got the girls, the respect, and the It factor. They were also willing to let me be a part of it as long as I did what they told me to do.
As the day slowly went by, it started to rain. Before the bell rang for the end of class, I walked outside and stood in the middle of a grassy patch. Big globs of teardrops from the clouds fell upon my stressed face, cascading down my body into the cut grass of the school grounds. I closed my eyes for a brief moment to engulf myself with the sensory relief the wet rain offered: The temporary lift the cold water gave me as it ran down my back; the fresh breeze of wet wind hitting my face giving off a sense of detachment from the worries of life; the rhythmic plip-plop of the teardrops hitting the ground with the purpose that Mother Nature gave them; the soft tingle that made my hair stand on ends as the chill enveloped me with its cold and comforting embraced; ¬I felt it all.
I knew this moment of respite was short-lived, because then my peers pulled me out of school and onto the weedy ruins of an old church. It is said that a church is a symbol for sanctuary and protection for people in need of it. With all its meaning, this church, for that time, was considered a location for fights. It had an old rotten feeling about it. Thick iron spikes poked out of its walls in a kind of warning for those who go near it. Every single one of the frosted glasses that emblazoned different figures were either smashed by rocks or vandalized with graffiti. The worn-out paint slowly peeled out to reveal damp red bricks that made the foundation of this church. Once poised to be one of the few elegant churches in the neighborhood, it was left abandoned by the government that failed to give it an appropriate amount of funding.
With its neglected atmosphere, it was a perfect place to set up fights. By the time I arrived at the place, there were already other students sitting up at the rusty railings by the church. Others were occupied with setting places for which they can view the fight in a comfortable place. The people around pumped me up, in their own way. One of them mocked my ego and my manhood in a way that was supposed to make me so mad that I would hit someone. Another one continuously reminded me that if I happened to punk out of this fight, I would forever be considered as the lowest of the low at school.
A loud noise emanated from the front of the church and seconds after, out came Francis being pulled by two guys. His eyes were etched in fear as he tried to release himself from the vice-like grip the two guys had on him. As he was shoved into the middle of the area, shouts from the surrounding students grew louder and louder. It felt like I was in a coliseum, the emperor judging me from a throne hundreds of feet above ground. Francis and I were two gladiators, fighting for something that wasn’t worth a damn.
What happened next was a blur of events. I couldn’t remember what happened during the fight. There were lots of red, presumably blood. I didn’t feel anything, just an acute feeling of hesitation and repulsion over my actions. Maybe it’s because I tried hard all these years to forget about that memory. That sickening memory where I laid down my fists upon a reluctant and former friend, stuck with me to this day yet I couldn’t even vividly recreate the events in my head.
They say that a person cannot remember all the details of a fight that he or she got involved in. Adrenaline does that to you. The adrenaline level in a person obviously heightens in a stressful situation. You get tunnel vision, which means that your vision gets much focused. Your hearing gets worse, which could explain the blurriness of sounds that surrounded me that time. Your breathing goes faster, which means that blood pumps through your head faster. Your brain goes to overdrive and works twice as hard as it should be. This could be why I couldn’t the details vividly as I wished. You’re hands and legs get shaky from the blood overdrive. I probably tried to shake off the feeling by forming my fingers to fists and pounding the living crap out of my friend.
There was one thing that I remembered excruciatingly clear throughout the fight. Blood. Lots of it. The next thing I noticed was silence. It was a scary silence, followed by a repeated series of heavings that emanated from my chest. I looked down upon Francis to find him a bloody mess.
His face was blotched with cuts and bruises that was a result from repeated beatings with my fists. The favorite shirt that featured the smiley-face was completely ripped, leaving shreds of fabric all over the floor along with splashes of blood. The chest featured purple bruises and wounds that introduced more blood to the outside world. He was a defeated man, but did he ever really put up a fight?
Ashamed of my own actions, I looked away from the beaten guy and stared down the leader of the group, giving him the message I did it. With the demeanor of a man who had no respect for himself, I walked away from the place. I kept thinking about everything that happened as I walked past concrete rows of houses on my way home. The rain still kept on pouring, producing big brown puddles that overflowed to the drainage pipes. As drips of liquid fell down from above, I looked up at the sky, dark and foreboding and wondered to myself, was it worth it?
Those four words clunked inside my head as I went inside my home, ventured to my dark, littered room and laid down on the dirty, stained bed. This whole series of events changed my perspective in life. I was no longer the guy who would do anything to belong. There was no longer innocence in my heart, nor gullibility towards the world. I did an act to impress my fellow peers, yet at what cost? I lost the genuine friendship of a fellow companion and threw away whatever self-esteem I had in me went out the door. This happened 5 years ago.
Now that I sit here, in my coffee-stained desk with my oversized mug writing about this story that emanated from deep inside me, I still think about the repercussions that followed on that day. As it turned out, my former friend never told anyone about the fight. However, our friendship never got repaired and everyone who saw the fight picked on him until he had to transfer to another school. I never returned to the gang. I never hung out with anyone else. Instead, I stayed a loner through the rest of that year, just cruising by on my classes and not bothering anyone. I didn’t get picked on because they saw what I did to Francis back at the church. When the school year ended, I transferred out of school and moved to the United States.
My past could have been a whole different story if it wasn’t for that event. I kept thinking to myself, Why did I do it? I was being dumb. Peer pressure got to me. My behavior brought a serious consequence which came in the form of my past haunting me. It was a punishment that marked me, but was it harsh enough. The only thing that still comes up to my mind was, if presented with a similar situation, wondering if I would still make the same decision. Probably not. But really, in a world where everything happens with influence and connections, anything can happen.
Well sh*t, a little late, but this was written by Robin Letim. I thought I had seen him address himself, but I suppose not. Sorry!
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