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Little Boy
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Jimmy Brennan walked down the hall of Bayview Secondary, his head low to the ground. The bandage on his nose obscured most of his vision; the right side of his face was a swollen purple mess. Jimmy always assumed bruises would be some sort of a trophy, battle scars. These were anything but. His face and his nose were a painful throbbing reminder of his failure. The fight had occurred only a day ago, but the news had spread fast. By noon, not a single kid at Bayview would be in the dark. Jimmy Brennan was the laughing stock of the school and even now he could picture kids clustered at lunch tables, talking about how Phillip Ward made him his little bitch.

I wasn’t. That wasn’t how it happened. It was a lucky shot!

His anger was tight, a pain in his gut he couldn’t remove. It was tearing a hole through him, and every lingering gaze only increased it. Ward had been pissed to say the least, after his ban from the team. Hockey was one of the only things he seemed to like, and Jimmy had momentarily taken it away from him.

At least I did that. At least I made him squirm, that crazy fuck…

Ward was still pissed and Jimmy would have been a fool to not suspect an eventual retaliation. He wasn’t a fool. Phillip may have won the fight, but he wasn’t done yet.

They never are. They can’t just leave me alone! I left him smarting though. That’s something. I did something. Get it Jimmy? You HURT him. It wasn’t a total loss. It was a warm up.

That was just a warm up Jimmy. Wait ‘till the day it’s for real. Then you’ll show’em. You’ll show’em all what Jimmy fucking Brennan can do!

Jimmy Brennan opened his eyes and let out a sob. His nose felt shattered, his muscles ached. He was vaguely away he was bleeding, from where he did not know. Gingerly he raised one of his gloved hands up to his face, giving a cry as pain laced its way up his arm. Laying on his back, Jimmy gently prodded his face trying to locate the source of the blood. It didn’t do much good. It seemed like there was blood everywhere, pain everywhere. Alex White had done what every kid at Bayview dreamed of, beating the living shit out of Jimmy Brennan.

Fucker left enough of me for others though... Motherfucker… My face…

Jimmy realized he was crying, but nothing short of the wrath of God could make him stop. He’d been lying to himself, holding a curtain up to his life, obscuring the bad, embellishing the… non-existent. Sadness flowed through him along with another wracking sob. He had nothing. To these people, even in the end times, he was nothing.

It hurts. Oh god, my face, my fucking ARM, it hurts…

He had awoken a few minutes after Alex had departed, and had lain still for far longer. The idea of Alex coming back to finish the job, to snap his cowardly neck was terrifying and the fear had kept him awake long after his adrenaline had quit. If Jimmy was going to die, he was going to die with dignity.

Doesn’t change the fact I don’t want to fucking DIE though, does it?

His luck had been incredible. To blunder about in the woods with zero sense of direction and training and not run into some sociopath with a gun and some spare time on his hands, it had to be luck. Because the only other option was skill, and as Jimmy was becoming acutely aware, he had no skill.

Jimmy finally succeeded in sitting up. With a final pathetic sniffle, Jimmy began his next painful task, standing again. His legs were numb and he felt dizzy, not to mention his balls continued to ache at the mere thought of Carly Jean. He briefly wondered how many hits the video had accumulated on Youtube. Laying next to him on the ground was a strange sight. His can of Moxie sat next to a half empty water bottle, absolutely pristine. Mocking him. He scowled and snatched it up, throwing it in his bag along with the water bottle. Thoughts of Carly Jean filled his mind and his scowl intensified.

What a fucking bitch. The next time I see her, the next time…

Jimmy’s thoughts trailed off. He couldn’t complete the sentence. For all the hate he had, he didn’t have enough. And it was killing him. Kicking the dirt, Jimmy staggered momentarily. Everything he had, he had tried to give everything he had in that one moment, that one punch. What had happened?

Shit all. I punched him, it did shit all. He had me down, he knocked me out. I can cuss all I want, I can try all I want, but I can’t. My luck is going to run out. I’m going to die here, and no one will care.

It was infuriating. It was terrifying. Jimmy had been punched, he had been abused, but he had never come close to the brink, close to deaths door. He’d thought he was a goner in the woods, on the mountain, but that was nothing in comparison to those tense hours, laying alone and praying Alex had left. Jimmy didn’t know if it was normal to feel shame, but he did. He felt shame, but moreover he felt weak. His legs felt like sticks. He wobbled and this time fell, clutching his gut.

This was it! That was the big time! This is when it counts and what did I do? What have I always done? Nothing! I fucked it up! I fucked it up, and it’s all fucked and I got nothing! I got NOTHING! I’M GOING TO DIE!


Jimmy screamed. Jimmy cried. Jimmy wailed and shouted until his throat was raw. God didn’t answer. Jimmy Brennan was alone. Jimmy Brennan was weak, and Jimmy Brennan was scared. And there was nothing he could do.

A half hour later, Jimmy picked up his bag and began to walk.

[[Jimmy Brennan continues in Final Third Foul ]]
Edited by Little Boy, Dec 1 2010, 09:06 PM.
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Oswaldo Marx --> "Chicks dig scars? Yeah, I'm calling bullshit." --> Cicada Nights
Mikko "Mike" Korhonen --> "Interesting, very interesting!" --> A Casual Question
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