The air was sucked out of my lungs as I hit the ground. I stood just in time to find myself on the floor again due to another punch. Blood streamed down my face, stinging my eyes. I coughed and felt a ache in my ribs. Still, I stood again. And again, and again, and again.

I didn’t ask for a fight, if you could call that one. I was only trying to stop the fighting.

I had been walking down the hall that morning when I encountered a scene that you might have seen in a high school drama; a guy was being harassed by some kid for stealing his girlfriend or whatever, and things were looking like they were about to get ugly. Everyone else was just standing around, some with cynical smiles, awaiting the inevitable first punch.

As the crowd grew larger, and the guys got more and more agitated, I realized that I had two options to preserve my psyche. One was to walk away and pretend nothing happened, that that was where the conflict had ended. But I knew that that was not what would happen.

I pushed through the crowd and made my way to the front. I got in between the guys, hoping that maybe that would deescalate the situation.

“Get out of my way,” one of them said to me.

“No.”

“Get out of my way before a beat you up too!”

“No.”

“Just get out of here!” The other guy tried to move me, but I wouldn’t budge.

That was how I ended up there. On the floor, my face dripping blood. He kept throwing punches, and finally stopped when he realized there was not a scratch on him. He walked away, the rest of the crowd trickling towards their classes as well. I vaguely remembered a teacher dragging me off to an ambulance before I lost consciousness.