Page 9 of Broken by my Bully

There’s an uneasy murmur from the class. I tap my pen against my chin, pursing my lips for a moment.

I mean, he has a point. I remember getting the odd smack or two if I tracked mud into the trailer after Mom had cleaned, or if I woke Dad up from one of his naps. Were they being cruel? I thought so at the time…but I wiped my feet and never ran around indoors again.

Wow. I haven’t thought of my mom in over a decade.

We were never close. I mean, she died when I was four, so I barely have any memories of her. My dad? I try not to think about him at all.

CRUELTY = INTENT + POWER? / PERCEPTION + …

Professor Rooke’s voice drops. “What about impact?”

Wide eyes—mine included—blink at him.

Even Kai, hands tucked under his armpits and feet crossed at the ankles, watches Rooke with an unwavering stare.

Our teacher swallows down the last of his coffee and then crumples the paper cup with a single powerful flex of his hand. He drops it on the floor and kicks it under thedesk.

Kai flinches and runs his hands through his hair, our eyes meeting for a split second before he wrenches his gaze back to Rooke.

“Was I cruel to discard that cup?”

Silence.

Professor Rooke walks up to the desk and leans against it, crossing his arms as he shrugs. “No one has any objections to the violence they just witnessed? This appalling crime of littering?”

The girl beside me with the ultra-chic bob lifts her hand. “It’s an inanimate object. It doesn’t have the physiology to feel pain. Or cruelty.”

If Rooke’s impressed, he doesn’t show it.

He shrugs again. “I was done with it anyway. Someone’s bound to pick it up and toss it in the trash.”

“No harm, no foul,” I blurt out.

Rooke’s gaze snaps to me. There’s an almost feverish glee sparkling there as he pushes away from the desk, snapping his fingers in my direction.

“Impact.”

He picks up his chalk and scratches on the board.

INTENT

IMPACT

INTERPRET

“If we don’t understand theintentionbehind the act?—“

He taps his chalk on the first word.

“How itimpactsthe alleged victim of the said act…”

Another furious round of tapping on the second word.

“Or how both participantsinterpretthe act?—”

The chalk screeches as he circles the last word.

He turns to us, shaking his head, the beginning of a smile teasing his mouth. I’m not the only one who’s spellbound. I swear I can hear his paper coffee cup slowly uncrumpling under thedesk.