Barry strutted across the playground, his eyes locked on Archie, who stood near the swings, clutching his backpack tightly.
"Hey, Archie, why so scared?" His voice carried a mocking tone that made Archie shrink back. Around them, other children played, unaware of the tension brewing in this small corner of their world.
Barry's words cut deep, like invisible knives. Each taunt and jibe from Barry left Archie feeling a sharp sting, and suddenly, there was a trickle of red running down his arm. But no one noticed. The other kids, caught up in their own games, saw nothing amiss. Archie turned away, his heart heavy and his arm slick with unseen blood.
Ellie, a classmate with kind eyes, noticed Archie lingering by his locker, his expression vacant. "Hey, Archie, everything okay?" she asked gently. Archie nodded, forcing a smile, but as Barry passed by, the pain flared again, and his side bled anew. Ellie saw nothing, yet felt a pang of concern wash over her.
The bell signaled the end of recess, and the children streamed back inside, leaving the yard empty save for Archie. He lingered, his mind replaying Barry's words like a broken record. He glanced around at his peers; many bore unseen wounds, faces marked by silent screams. Archie knew he was not alone, yet felt utterly isolated.
Archie shuffled towards his mother's car, each step a reminder of the day's pain. Mrs. Thompson, his mother, turned with a smile. "How was school today, Archie?" she asked. Archie hesitated, the words stuck in his throat. Mrs. Thompson nodded as he mumbled something about mean words, dismissing it lightly. As the car pulled away, Archie sat in silence, the weight of his invisible scars pressing down.
Archie watched the world blur by, tears slipping down his face, mingling with the unseen blood. He knew tomorrow would bring more battles, more wounds, but for now, he let the tears flow, hoping somehow they might wash away the pain. In the shadows of the car, his spirit cried out, unheard and unseen, yearning for a healing touch that never came.
