wc. 4.6k
tw: child abuse, domestic violence, bullying
You still remember the day Mr. Bauer clapped his hands twice before anyone could sit down.
That usually meant something was happening.
“We have a new student joining us today.” he said and gestured to the door.
You perked up in your seat, already anticipating and then the door opened and all of that anticipation turned into something else entirely.
The blonde boy who walked in was tall for a twelve-year-old. That was the first thing you noticed. The second was that he was dirty. Not like forgot-to-wash-his-hands dirty. Actually dirty. Like the grime had settled in and decided to stay.
There were bruises on his neck—fading ones, yellow at the edges. Another on his cheek, older still. His black hoodie looked faded. His pants were wrinkled. And his shoes—you looked down because you couldn't help it—his shoes were so worn out the sole was peeling at the toe.
He didn't look at anyone.
“This is Michael Kaiser.” Mr. Bauer said. “Please make him feel welcome.”
Nobody clapped. A few of your classmates whispered. Someone behind you tried not to laugh.
You were still looking at him when he finally glanced up.
Pretty, you thought, even with the bruise sitting underneath one of them. Pretty in a way that didn't make sense under all that dirt. Pretty even with the hint of sadness.
He made his way down the aisle and sat behind you. No bag. No pencil case. Nothing. Just himself dropped into a chair like something forgotten.
And that was the first time you became aware of Michael Kaiser's existence.
Ever since then you remember watching your classmates crowd around him during lunch and pick on him. They'd grab his small biscuit and crush it under their feet. They'd nitpick him like he's an unknown creature. They'd ask him questions;
“Why are you so dirty?”
“Don't you have other clothes?”
“Why do you smell like trash?”
“Are you homeless?”
And each time the kids would laugh. They'd laugh at his grimy hair, his worn-out shoes, the black hoodie he kept wearing. They'd point and laugh at every bruise and wound and scratch on his face like being hurt was a foreign thing to them.
And maybe in a way it was. Because not everyone in that classroom was being beaten up in their own home.
One time you saw him sitting at the swings alone. Everyone else was playing but he was just there in his black hoodie—sitting, not swinging, not having fun. Just sitting quietly.
You fiddled with your fingers as you stood in front of him. His head was hung low and he looked so defeated and that ignited something in you.
“I will be Michael Kaiser's friend” you thought.
But the moment he glanced up at you, his blue eyes were mean and cold and dull, and for a moment you thought he'd lunge at you.
You instinctively took a step back—just a precaution—and then you muttered your words.
He kept glaring at you. Like he thought you were just like the others, there to trick him. You felt the need to defend yourself so you spoke with your small voice.
“I'm not gonna hurt you. Or tease you. I just—” and even before you could finish, he stood up and walked away.
Maybe he thought you wanted the swing to yourself.
Kaiser was always like that—avoiding conflict by turning away.
And you watched him go thinking, “it's never the swing that I want.”
Life went on for you and Kaiser and the whole class. And that meant you watched your classmates terrorize him over and over again.
The way they'd throw crumpled papers at his head whenever the teacher wasn't looking. The way the girls would cover their noses and giggle whenever they walked past him. One time they even sprayed perfume in his direction, saying they were doing everyone a favor by removing the foul smell.
You called them out, of course. And you ended up in a catfight—you were on top of one of the girls, pulling hair and swinging wildly, while the teacher hurried over to peel you off before things got any worse.
Your heart pounded in your ears as the adrenaline rushed in and you refused to look at Kaiser because you didn't want him to think you did it for him. You'd hate yourself even more if for a second you thought this would make Kaiser like you, so you convinced yourself—
That same afternoon you ended up in detention.
But you didn’t regret anything.
During lunch the following day you found Kaiser sitting on his desk, sobbing quietly as tears fell down his cheeks. His supposed lunch meal—some biscuits were crushed on the floor again.
You walked slowly as you approached him, afraid he'd bolt if you so much as inhaled the wrong way and then you placed a slightly squashed sandwich on his desk that you took from your bag. Wrapped in cling film—some chicken, mustard, a little wilted lettuce.
“I made it this morning.” you said.
Kaiser looked at it and sniffled—and then his hand aggressively slapped the poor little sandwich and it flew across the room.
You went to pick it up immediately, thankful the cling wrap was so tight the sandwich wasn't destroyed.
You tried handing it to him again.
“Just eat it.” you said patiently. “Or you'll be hungry and your stomach will growl and everyone's gonna hear and they'll laugh at you again.”
A flash of worry crossed Kaiser's face this time and he finally relented, taking the sandwich from your hand. It was the first time you saw his fingers—all battered and torn from the fist fights he'd been in. His nails were dirty but that didn't make you flinch.
You watched as he slowly unwrapped it, and when he took a bite you almost exploded out of happiness. But you didn't, because that would be creepy, and you didn't want to creep him out.
So you stood still and watched him eat.
Everything outside the classroom felt far away for once. The bullies that teased him, the teachers that didn't care, the adults that caused pain, the whole miserable situation—none of it could get in here. It was just him eating a sandwich you made and you trying very hard not to make it weird.
You smiled to yourself, thinking you'd definitely remember this moment. Because it was the first time Michael Kaiser had let you into his space.
When class ended that day, you decided to follow Kaiser home.
You knew even at a young age that stalking is wrong.
You crossed the street when he crossed. Slowed your steps when he slowed. Kept a full block between you like that made it less strange.
You stopped at a distance and watched discreetly as he turned and entered through a gate. The house was large. The gate was rusty and wrapped in dead vines, the front yard full of trash bags and overgrown weeds, the paint on the walls peeling in long strips. But the bones of it were big.
Once it was probably something.
He went through the door without looking back. And you stood on the pavement and stared up at the house and thought, “Kaiser lives here.”
Then you heard it. Shouting. Something heavy hitting something else. A loud thud. More shouting. You couldn't make out the words but the shape of them was clear enough. Someone was very angry. Someone was getting hurt.
You knew you should run away and leave but how could you do that when you knew Kaiser was in there? Another loud bang and you flinched and took a step back. You were trembling, your fingers cold as you clenched them on your sides and then the noise just kept amplifying and for a moment you felt like you were inside that house too.
You brought your hands up to your ears and covered them and closed your eyes. The same method you used whenever your own parents fought.
You were afraid. You want to do something. But what could a little girl like you do? If anything, barging in would only make things worse for Kaiser.
So you turned on your heels and ran. Faster than you ever had.
Soon enough you were home.
The following morning you expected Kaiser wouldn't come to school.
Same black hoodie. Same pants. And the bruises on his face were more severe than before—one of his eyes was actually swollen shut.
He sat behind you like it was a normal day and you felt the guilt eat at your bones.
“If only you had barged in—”
But you stopped yourself, because the problem right now was much bigger.
The teasing was ten times worse.
The whole class started chanting. “Müllkind. Streuner. Ratte.”
Crowding around him again.
You didn't retaliate. You learned from the previous fight never to raise your fists again so you just stood up quietly and called the teacher in, and Mr. Bauer actually told everyone to be quiet.
But the moment he walked out again, you became the new target—they called you a snitch, also a Ratte.
You let them. At least it wasn't Kaiser taking it. You already knew he had enough on his plate. He was getting hurt at home and still being bullied at school, and the thought of peace seemingly not existing in his life made you want to scream.
Your little heart was broken for him.
Once class was over that afternoon, you hurriedly followed Kaiser towards the hallway. He walked fast and you finally caught up to him near the gates.
You took an extra step to match his stride. “I just wanted to—”
“Go away.” His voice came out flat, obviously irritated.
He suddenly turned and shoved you. Both hands slammed into your shoulders in full force.
You went down on the ground and sat there for a second, palms stinging against the dirt as you try to process what just happened.
Before you could react or even say anything Kaiser has already turned and walked away.
And then your feet were at it again. You followed him just like yesterday—but this time closer.
Kaiser turned to look at you over his shoulder.
You were still following.
Kaiser walked faster. You walked faster.
And even before he could get away, you grabbed onto his hoodie. Your tiny fingers clutched the fabric on his back.
He turned to face you, expression seething, jaw clenched.
And you opened your mouth and blurted it out—“Let's walk home together.”
Kaiser's expression shifted. Just slightly. Softened in a way you didn't expect.
Then he scoffed and walked again. Your fingers still clutched his hoodie and he miraculously didn't push you away.
The two of you walked together that afternoon like an odd pair—him leading, you trailing behind like a lost puppy with your hand still fisted in the back of his black hoodie, refusing to let go.
He already tried running, pulling and squirming himself away from your grip and you felt his strength but your determination was stronger and you'd held on so tight he finally just gave up.
You watched him kick a stone on the pavement as you walk. Then he kicked another. Then he slapped some flowers on a bush as he passed, not breaking stride, like he wanted to leave a little destruction on everything he considered beneath him.
You noticed it then—the way he moved through the world. All wrath and sadness, wearing them both like that faded black hoodie. Like they were just another thing he'd had on for so long he didn’t know how to get rid of it.
Then finally he stopped walking.
The two of you stood in front of that big house— and you were pretending so hard you'd never been here before, never seen it before.
You glanced up at him seeing his face drain of color. Fear flashed across his face, and you knew what that meant. He was going to get hurt the moment he step inside. And you had to pretend you didn't know.
He turned and shoved your hand off his hoodie.
“Now leave.” Kaiser said.
You opened your mouth to say something—“you should get inside first”—but the words died before they left. Somehow it sounded so wrong. You knew what waited for him behind that door. You couldn't say it and pretend like it was nothing.
So without having much choice, you turned to leave.
“See you tomorrow.” You told him and you caught the way his expression shifted—his blue eyes softened, then he was back to that mean glare again.
He never said anything back. Never waved his hand goodbye.
But you knew what you saw.
And you were storing it in your heart and taking it home with you.
The following day, Michael Kaiser walked into the classroom wearing the same worn-out shoes and same black pants.
But his top was different.
A cream sweater. Loose at the collar, a little stretched, obviously cheap.
You noticed immediately, and something in your chest did something you didn't have a name for.
“he wants to be here too” you thought. “it's just really hard for him.”
You held onto that. Didn't know why it felt so important—that small cream sweater, that small attempt. Like if he was still trying, then maybe things could still be okay.
You didn't smile at him when he walked past and sat down behind you, but the whole duration of the morning class you kept turning your head to glance at him, your lips pressed trying not to smile—your eyes gleamed every time you took in the way he looked.
His blonde hair was in full display, highlighting his blue eyes, and even with the bruises and wounds you couldn't help but admire him a little more.
Kaiser seemed to notice your glances and he kicked your chair. As if to tell you to “quit gawking”
You didn't flinch. You knew Kaiser didn't mean it maliciously. You just smiled to yourself like a fool.
That afternoon the math teacher was absent, which meant chaos.
You were busy trying to read a book your seatmate has lent you when you heard it—a wet splashing sound, then laughter.
When you turned to look, you saw a boy standing there with an empty carton of grape juice tilted in his hand. The stain spread dark across Kaiser's shoulder and down the front of his cream sweater, soaking through fast.
Kaiser's chair scraped back—and before you knew it you were moving too.
You and Kaiser were shoving and pushing the boy until his back hit the wall, and then someone pulled your hair so hard you saw the ceiling.
Your hands flailed trying to grab whoever had you, and before you knew it, it was you and Kaiser against the majority of the class.
You hit the floor eventually—someone had pushed you so hard you were convinced it was two people at once.
You sat there for a second and your eyes were burning and you hated it, hated that you were about to cry, this was stupid, you were fine—you had to get up, you couldn't leave Kaiser again when he was hurting—
But then you looked up and you saw him.
Kaiser was still fighting.
Three boys on him and he wasn't stopping, wasn't making a sound—just kept swinging, kept pushing back, his ruined sweater soaked through and his jaw set and his eyes furious and cold. He was taking the hits like they were nothing and hitting back just as hard. He was standing right in front of you, actually trying to push the boys back so they wouldn't step on you.
“He's tough...” you thought, through the blur of tears.
The teacher's voice cut through the room by then and everyone scattered. Kaiser was out the door before Mr. Bauer even finished his sentence.
You stood up too and ran, following Kaiser outside.
You chased him three blocks from the school and you ended up in the park. Kaiser was bent forward with his hands on his knees, breathing hard. His sweater was heavily stained. There was a fresh cut on his knuckle.
He heard your footsteps and straightened up. His brow was bleeding.
“Why did you follow me.” Not a question. Flat and tired and mean.
“Let's go back.” you said, still catching your breath. “To school. We can tell the teacher what happened—”
“They'll blame me.” He said it like it was obvious. Like it was something he'd learned a long time ago, in a way that had nothing to do with sixth grade. “They always blame me...”
“Not if I back you up. I was there, I saw everything—”
“You don't know anything!” He turned away. Started walking.
“Please.” Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. “Please don't go.”
“Don't leave.” The words were coming too fast, too much, you could hear it but you couldn't stop. “Just—come back. Come back to class. I'll sit next to you this time, I'll share my books, I'll bring food—just please don't leave!”
“Why are you so desperate?”
His words hit like a hand to the chest.
Tears came before you could stop them. Your throat went tight. You wiped your eyes with your forearm, your lips trembled as you blurted out the words you wanted to say.
“I want to be your friend!”
You took a breath and looked at him.
Kaiser was staring back at you. Really staring, like you'd said something in a language he'd never heard before and he was trying to figure out if it was real.
His jaw was tight, his eyes were wet.
Just barely. Just enough.
“We can't be friends.” he said quietly.
You stood in the park and watched him disappear and you didn't go after him this time. You just stood there crying until you were sure he was never coming back.
When the teacher confronted your parents that same day, you got a beating from your dad.
And you thought, as your dad was hitting you using his fists, that right now you were feeling what Kaiser felt every day.
You thought maybe sharing the same pain could be a way to connect to him.
But even as the thought crossed your mind, you knew it was pointless.
You felt it in the way he said those words “we can’t be friends”
It sounded less like a choice and more like a final verdict.
Hated how there was nothing you could do about it.
The following day Kaiser didn’t show up.
You still held hope that he’d come to school despite everything that had happened yesterday but he didn’t.
Kaiser never showed up again after that.
You started blaming yourself.
You told yourself maybe if you tried enough. Maybe if you fought harder. Maybe if you weren’t afraid to end up in detention—maybe Kaiser would still be here.
So you took whatever little hope you have left and you didn’t give up on him.
You told yourself you’d try again.
You kept going back to Kaiser's house—pacing back and forth as you thought of ways to take him away from there. One time you even considered sneaking in, maybe through the back door or one of the many windows.
But breaking and entering was a crime, and you didn't want your dad to beat you up again for doing something reckless.
In the end you just stood there, pulling at your hair in frustration, unable to knock and unable to break in.
Just thinking about facing whoever was hurting Kaiser—facing that same wrath, that same rage—was enough to make you stop and think it over again.
Eventually you’d just turn and walk home and you’d hate yourself for it even more.
Every time you left you felt the wound getting deeper. Like you were abandoning Kaiser over and over again. Like you’re letting him get hurt just because you’re too afraid to barge in.
So you decided you’d stopped going back to that big worn-out house, hoping to yourself Kaiser would come out by himself and find you.
But two years has passed and you never saw him again.
Now you were fourteen and your dad came home with his face swollen on one side, a cut above his eyebrow already starting to bruise. You'd seen him come home tired before. Annoyed before. But not like this.
He dropped into the kitchen chair like his whole body weighed more than usual.
“You wouldn't believe the day I had.” he said, pressing the back of his hand to his cheek and wincing. “That problematic kid—the one from your school, remember back in sixth grade? The punk organized a heist. His people named him. We arrested him.”
Your mom came over with an ice pack wrapped in a dish towel and pressed it gently against his face.
“He fought back the entire time.” your dad continued, irritation bleeding into every word. “His hands were cuffed. Cuffed behind his back, and he still managed to—” he gestured vaguely at his own face. “Kicked one of the guys clean in the jaw, planted his heel on another officer's face, kicked a soccer ball on all of our faces. It took five of us to get him in the police car.”
“That kid. Kaiser.” He said the name like it tasted bad. “Michael Kaiser.”
The fork in your hand stopped moving.
NO—there’s no way—he wouldn't—
But you knew you were lying to yourself. Of course he would. You'd seen him fight off three boys at once without making a sound. You'd seen what he looked like when he was cornered.
“He's at the station now?” you asked, trying to keep your voice even, stabbing at a piece of broccoli on your plate without really seeing it.
Your mom said something about the ice pack slipping, and your dad snapped back at her about how she was holding it wrong, and just like that the conversation tipped sideways into something about the ice pack, then about dinner being late, then about something from last week that had nothing to do with any of this. Their voices rose as they screamed at each other.
You didn't hear most of it.
You were thinking about Kaiser in a cell somewhere. Kaiser with his hands cuffed and his jaw set and that same furious, cold look in his eyes.
You thought, “I have to see him.”
“Dad.” you said, cutting through whatever argument was happening infront of you. “Can I—can I go see him? Kaiser. Can I visit him?”
Your dad turned to look at you like you'd just said something ridiculous.
“I just want to know if he's okay—”
“He's not your problem.” He said it flatly, the irritation from the argument with your mom still sitting right under his words, sharpening them. “Some old man already came and bailed him out. Took him to Munich, apparently. Paid whatever needed paying.” He shook his head like the whole thing disgusted him. “Kid like that, somebody's always cleaning up after him.”
You sat with that for a second. Munich was hours away. Munich was a different world. You were fourteen and you didn't even know how you'd get to the train station on your own, let alone another city.
You felt something in your chest sink down and settle, heavy and quiet.
Your dad was still looking at you, and something in his expression shifted—sharper now, more focused, like he'd noticed something he didn't like.
“Don't even think about it.” he said. Just that, at first. Then, leaning forward slightly, voice low “Don't you go doing anything stupid for that boy again. You hear me?”
You looked down at your plate.
“I hear you.” you said quietly.
You stayed in that thought for a long time. Long after dinner was cleared. Long after your parents stopped arguing about whatever it was they'd been arguing about. Long after the house went quiet and dark and your mom told you to go to bed for the third time.
You lay there staring at the ceiling, thinking about a house with dead vines on the gate and trash in the yard. Thinking about the sound of something heavy hitting something else, and shouting you could never quite make out.
That house didn't have him in it anymore.
Whatever Munich was—whoever that old man was—it had to be better than that. It had to be.
You held onto that thought like it was something solid. Something you could keep.
“Wherever you are...” you thought, “I hope it's quiet there.”
Then you learned to let it go and years passed again.
You grew up. You moved on. You almost forgot what his eyes looked like, and you hated yourself for it.
Sometimes you still wondered how he was doing and you could only pray for his safety and nothing else.
Life happened for you too.
Now you were in university, studying medicine. Something about rescuing and healing had filled your heart with longing from your earlier days—so that's what you pursued.
One day while lounging in the common room of the student housing, your eyes fell on the huge TV screen.
They were airing the U20 World Cup happening in Japan.
The stadium was full and loud. The athletes were running across the pitch when the camera zoomed in on a particular player—
Tall. Golden-haired. Mean-looking in the best way. Moving across the pitch like he owned every inch of it.
He scored in the thirty-second minute.
The commentator was losing his mind. The crowd was losing their mind. His teammates mobbed him—and he stood in the middle of all of it with his hand brushing through his hair, seemingly annoyed, as if scoring a hattrick was something only a lowly peasant would celebrate and he was better than that.
The crease in his brow. You'd recognize that anywhere.
You felt your heart thumped. The rush of blood pounding in your ears as you looked at the man on the screen and how he resembles the image of that kid in your memory.
You recalled his face, how mean he looked, his blonde hair matted with grime and dirt, the boy with dirty clothes and a bruised face—bloodied lips and torn knuckles—that boy with his sad eyes and sharp words.
“There you are.” you said softly, to no one in particular. To him, across that screen.
And then you felt it—the relief, quiet and enormous, settling into your chest like something finally coming to rest.
“No one can hurt you now.”
#notes: this has been such a looooong read (っ,-) but if you made it this far THANK YOU (つ╥ ᵕ ╥)つ♡
#notes: i have spent a considerable amount of time trying to think of a title that would suit this story and i was torn between "all I wanted" (a paramore song, yes) and "capernaum" and I obviously settled with the latter because i want to convey the ironic meaning of the word capernaum which means "village of healing" and to parallel that to the reader and kaiser living in a town where they were being rejected and neglected. AND YET they found each other and i want you all to think, no matter how the story progressed that they are each other's capernaum.
