Status: Completed flash fiction; going into a collection.
If They Come Again
If They Come Again
They push me down again.
And again.
And again.
They expect me to stay down after the third push, but I can’t; I’m not going to let them win this time.
There’s a fourth push, and as I move to my knees to stand back up the cold, hard pressure of a steel-toed boot is in my stomach. The air is pushed out of my lungs, forcing me to double over where I kneel and gasp for air.
Fingers tangle in the back of my hair, pulling my head up just before a fist connects with my jaw. I
bite my tongue; and the familiar metallic taste of blood floods over my taste buds.
Another hit, and my nose breaks with a crunch.
A third, and my eye feels like it’s swelling shut.
We’ve done this a thousand times it seems, an endless dance between them and me. I know how this ends; a few more hits and I will be thrown to the ground to cough and bleed in the snow as one of them kicks my stomach over and over with his steel-toed boot.
I hate that boot.
That boot hates me.
I don’t understand why these people want to hurt me as much as they do. All I ever did was try to be myself; all I ever did was break their mold. I never hurt them; I never even said anything to them. I just put my head down and walked quietly, trying as hard as I could to never be noticed.
It isn’t fair.
My anger boils inside of me as I lie on the cold, hard ground.
It isn’t fair.
I want to scream, but there’s no air in my lungs.
It isn’t fair.
I don’t even want to be here; I just want to go home!
It isn’t fair!
As the boot swings in for its first kick, I hold up my hand to stop it.
It isn’t fair, it isn’t fair, it isn’t fair!
The boot hits my hand with enough force that I can feel each of the tiny bones in my fingers break and clearly hear them crackling with the impact. I quickly pull it away, flinching as pain shoots up my arm. I try to block with my other hand, but I’m too slow. The boot digs under my ribs, and I hear a deafening crack.
The boys laugh.
I cough up blood.
“Hey!” A distant voice calls, filled with alarm.
“Hey,” it calls again, “leave her alone!”
I turn my head to see a boy about my age sprinting over to where I lay in the blood-soaked snow. His image is blurry as I try not to lose consciousness. My attackers see him and dash for a car that’s parked on the other side of the street. I smile to myself; hearing tires skid on asphalt and glad that the dance ended before its due time. My attention darts back to the boy as he kneels next to me, carefully pulling me up so that I can sit.
I start to shiver, finally feeling the lack of the coat that they stole, and the boy holds me tightly against his chest to keep me warm.
“You’re alright now, May. They won’t hurt you anymore,” He murmurs soothingly, and I bury my face in his shirt. His heart beat is steady and comforting; his arms around me strong and protective. His voice is familiar and soothing.
He is Mike; the quiet kid who sits next to me in the back of our French class. He, like me, likes to sit and observe people. He’s always very kind to me; my only friend. Knowing him, I never would have imagined that he would be the one to save me when no one else would.
I’m glad that he did.
He takes one arm out of his jacket so that he can wrap it around my shoulder, keeping us both warm. I breathe in his sweet scent of laundry detergent and cheap cologne, and I feel safe.
We begin to walk down the silent street. Not a dog barks; not a bird sings. It isn’t winter, it isn’t pain, and it isn’t the constant thought of the boot shattering my ribcage to pieces.
It is us.
And as long as there’s us, we will be safe.
If they come again, we’ll be safe.
And again.
And again.
They expect me to stay down after the third push, but I can’t; I’m not going to let them win this time.
There’s a fourth push, and as I move to my knees to stand back up the cold, hard pressure of a steel-toed boot is in my stomach. The air is pushed out of my lungs, forcing me to double over where I kneel and gasp for air.
Fingers tangle in the back of my hair, pulling my head up just before a fist connects with my jaw. I
bite my tongue; and the familiar metallic taste of blood floods over my taste buds.
Another hit, and my nose breaks with a crunch.
A third, and my eye feels like it’s swelling shut.
We’ve done this a thousand times it seems, an endless dance between them and me. I know how this ends; a few more hits and I will be thrown to the ground to cough and bleed in the snow as one of them kicks my stomach over and over with his steel-toed boot.
I hate that boot.
That boot hates me.
I don’t understand why these people want to hurt me as much as they do. All I ever did was try to be myself; all I ever did was break their mold. I never hurt them; I never even said anything to them. I just put my head down and walked quietly, trying as hard as I could to never be noticed.
It isn’t fair.
My anger boils inside of me as I lie on the cold, hard ground.
It isn’t fair.
I want to scream, but there’s no air in my lungs.
It isn’t fair.
I don’t even want to be here; I just want to go home!
It isn’t fair!
As the boot swings in for its first kick, I hold up my hand to stop it.
It isn’t fair, it isn’t fair, it isn’t fair!
The boot hits my hand with enough force that I can feel each of the tiny bones in my fingers break and clearly hear them crackling with the impact. I quickly pull it away, flinching as pain shoots up my arm. I try to block with my other hand, but I’m too slow. The boot digs under my ribs, and I hear a deafening crack.
The boys laugh.
I cough up blood.
“Hey!” A distant voice calls, filled with alarm.
“Hey,” it calls again, “leave her alone!”
I turn my head to see a boy about my age sprinting over to where I lay in the blood-soaked snow. His image is blurry as I try not to lose consciousness. My attackers see him and dash for a car that’s parked on the other side of the street. I smile to myself; hearing tires skid on asphalt and glad that the dance ended before its due time. My attention darts back to the boy as he kneels next to me, carefully pulling me up so that I can sit.
I start to shiver, finally feeling the lack of the coat that they stole, and the boy holds me tightly against his chest to keep me warm.
“You’re alright now, May. They won’t hurt you anymore,” He murmurs soothingly, and I bury my face in his shirt. His heart beat is steady and comforting; his arms around me strong and protective. His voice is familiar and soothing.
He is Mike; the quiet kid who sits next to me in the back of our French class. He, like me, likes to sit and observe people. He’s always very kind to me; my only friend. Knowing him, I never would have imagined that he would be the one to save me when no one else would.
I’m glad that he did.
He takes one arm out of his jacket so that he can wrap it around my shoulder, keeping us both warm. I breathe in his sweet scent of laundry detergent and cheap cologne, and I feel safe.
We begin to walk down the silent street. Not a dog barks; not a bird sings. It isn’t winter, it isn’t pain, and it isn’t the constant thought of the boot shattering my ribcage to pieces.
It is us.
And as long as there’s us, we will be safe.
If they come again, we’ll be safe.