“Hey, Shah… What do you think you’re doing?” A voice cut through the dusty schoolyard as Fath Shah headed for the street.
Fath froze. He knew that voice.
Gafar.
He sighed.
Could he outrun Gafar?
Probably.
But then Gafar would just come to his house and break the parchment in the windows, something his mother couldn’t afford to replace all the time. Besides, Fath Shah didn’t want his mother to know what the source of his bruises were. She thought he tussled with the other boys and ended up losing, and that’s what he told her. In reality, it was all Gafar’s fault.
Gafar.
School bully.
Son to the current vizier - the adviser to the Sultan.
Why Gafar even came to the tiny, run-down charity school in the capital city Fath Shah never understood. Apparently, his father, Vizier Basim, believed that his son should see how the commoners worked.
Besides, the Sultan, Sultan Imaran, ran this public school on charity. Then again, Gafar’s father did contribute funds to the school as well, and as a major supporter, it made some sense that he would send his son to the school he supported most.
“Shah? You listening to me?” Gafar swaggered up behind Fath.
Fath turned to the older boy. “I’m listening. What do you want, Gafar?”
Gafar shrugged.
Fath stood a little taller, straightening his vest and belt, a determined light sparking in his eyes. “Well, if you don’t want anything, I’m leaving.”
Gafar growled. “Did I say you could leave, Shah?” the older boy’s hand shot out, gripping Fath’s shoulder with painful strength.
Fath gritted his teeth, determined not to show the pain. “What do you want, Gafar?” He repeated.
Gafar smiled, getting his face up close and whispering. “I want to know where you’re going.”
“Home.” Fath kept his tone flat and neutral, hoping to avoid a beating this time.
Gafar’s eyes got wide and innocent.
Fath wanted to groan. He knew what was coming. That look meant trouble.
“Home? The mongrel has a home?” He turned to look at his friends. “Did you hear that? He has a home!”
Fath felt the anger growing within him.
“What’ve you got to go home to? A mother who has worn her fingers to bone washing other people’s clothing ‘cause your good-for-nothing daddy walked out on you?” Gafar taunted.
Fath snapped then. “Don’t you dare talk about my mother that way!”
Gafar booed. “What are you going to do about it, Shah?” He turned to look at his friends again. “Say, just imagine that… I think his mother got a little above herself naming him ‘victorious king’ don’t you all think? This mongrel… A victorious king? Not now, not ever.” He laughed.
Fath curled his fingers into a fist, and then brought it up quickly into Gafar’s jaw. He heard the sharp yelp of pain that burst from Gafar’s mouth, and he smirked. Served the overgrown lout right. That would teach Gafar to make fun of Fath’s name and mother. Let alone his father. His father…
Fath shook away the thoughts. His father was worthless. He had disappeared one night without leaving a note or anything. No one knew where he was, and he hadn’t even had the decency to say goodbye before walking out, the coward.
An older, hotter anger burned within him now.
Then a hard fist connected with his nose. Warm, runny liquid poured down his face into his mouth. He gritted his teeth as stars sparked on the sides of his vision and the pain erupted blindingly in his head.
Shaking it off, he turned and ran.
Not that it was worth much. They caught him minutes after he began running. He had barely made it out of the schoolyard and onto the rough, broken cobblestone street.
He felt someone grab him roughly and begin dragging him. He cracked his eyes open to see what was going on. No one was coming to his aid.
He knew no one would.
Everyone in the school was afraid of Gafar and getting on his father’s bad side. No one would risk helping one of the poorest charity cases in the whole school. More specifically, him. No one at school cared about him anyway.
The teachers wouldn’t be informed, and even if one did see what Gafar and his friends were up to, they wouldn’t say anything.
He squeezed his eyes back shut, trying to focus on breathing through the blood flowing out of his nose. They threw him onto the cobblestones of an alleyway in between a row of abandoned adobe huts, and he curled into a ball as the beating began.
Feet slammed into him over and over, cracking a few ribs and breaking a finger or two. They stopped short of kicking or hitting him in the head, but eventually, the pain was so bad that he couldn’t stop the moans from escaping his mouth. Then he felt the dizziness rushing in to claim him, and he welcomed the blackness that followed it with open arms.
Everything went dark.