The boy in the box

Bus rides to home from school took time about twenty mins or so, more because of stops.

Kids were cruel to each other. No control. Pure chaos. Some days were okay, not today.

A young boy sat in the front seat, no one ever took the front seat if they didn't have to, but he did.

He had a large box with him. Who knows why.

He was being picked on. I watched, thinking that, I was glad it wasn't me,
but feeling bad for him, I couldn't do anything for him. I could only watch.

Then, he made it worse. He put the box on himself.

That made those picking on him increase there fervor, there is physiology to this of course,
that when you appear weak the attackers will go even more attack then if you stand up to them.

They hit the box, threw things, spit at him, insulted him, yelled, the bus driver shouted to keep quiet.

No one did. We rode on, it seemed like forever before his house stop came and he got off.

Kids cheered, as if some victory had been won.

What was it like for that poor boy in the box? How afraid was he? How sad was he?
Did anyone care? Did the bus driver report it? Did the parents find out? Nothing seemed to change the next time, no added adult to the bus to keep us calm. Why?

Are we the ones tossing things at the box? Are we the ones sitting and watching those others doing it, saying nothing?

Have we grown out of such behavior?

Or are we all the boy in the box?