battering Jack with his helmet she
wasn’t sure which if the two was more dangerous.
Mark tossed the helmet aside (“I had to
save up for months to get it,” he’d said with earnest pride just a
couple days earlier) and it skidded to stop at her feet. Along the
top there was a jagged crack forming, dotted with blood.
Mark had crawled atop Jack, grabbing a
handful of t-shirt with his left hand and slamming his right down
into Jack’s face.
“Leave . . . me . . . alone!” Mark
snarled, accentuating each word with a punch. Jack flailed his
arms, desperately and pitifully slapping at the punches as they
rained down on him.
“Mark!” she shouted, stepping forward,
but one of the boys that had surrounded them grabbed her wrist and
pulled her back.
“I don’t think so, bitch,” he said,
putting a hand on her shoulder and pulling her out of the way as he
walked past her. Jack’s other friend, who’d watched the whole thing
in gape-mouthed silence was shaken to action by his friend’s sudden
movement. Mark didn’t notice either of them, concentrating instead
on Jack’s bloody face.
Christine grabbed the boys hand before
he pulled away, and when he turned to look she swung her knee up
into his balls. His surprise turned into gasping pain and the
shocked look that boys got when every urban legend and health film
about exploded testicles flashed before their eyes.
She ran forward and got to the other
boy just before he grabbed Mark, slamming into him with all her
weight, and sending him skidding on his face across the gravel of
the parking lot.
“Mark!” Christine screamed, grabbing
the back of his jacket and trying to pull him to his
feet.
Mark turned and his eyes were blurry
with tears and squinted with concentrated hatred. For a second it
didn’t seem like he recognized her, but she grabbed his clenched
fist (it was sticky and hard to get a hold of) and pulled Mark away
from Jack’s stunned and moaning figure.
“We have to go!”
The fist in her hand began to tremble,
and she realized Mark was coming back from whatever ugly sinkhole
he’d lost himself in.
The kid Christine pushed had rolled
over and was glaring at them. Mark took a couple of steps back, and
then grinned, letting out a coughing, tear-choked laugh. He
stumbled towards the scooter, reaching down and scooping up his
helmet.
After a couple of false starts the
scooter lunged forward. Mark held the bloody helmet in his lap and
once she knew her grip on him was solid, she looked back to make
sure they weren’t being chased. Jack was sitting up and watching
them drive off, face spattered with blood and eyes burning with
impotent rage.
“Mark! Mark, slow down!
Please!”
A blurry car-esque shape sped in front
of him with a horn blaring and Mark realized he couldn’t see
clearly. He swerved out of the way, the V listing perilously.
Christine’s hold on him tightened and he could feel her face press
into his back.
For a way to go this
wouldn’t be half bad. Go out on a high note, right?
Once the scooter had righted itself he
slowed down and risked using a hand to wipe at his eyes. Once he
could see clearly he rounded a corner to a quiet side street,
pulled over to the curb and shut the engine off. He was panting,
wheezing in and out through a phlegm-packed nose, and his entire
body was shaking.
Well, it’s what you get for
acting like a rabid animal. Was it everything you hoped for,
killer? Better than the fantasy with the axe, or the one where
you’re strangling him in front of all of his smug fucking
friends?
She was tugging at him, trying to get
him to turn around and look at her. Whatever sudden
adrenaline-fueled strength he had was now gone, leaving only a
panic stricken mess. It was the last thing he wanted her to
see.
“Oh god, oh god,” he sobbed, pulling
away and putting his head on the handlebars.
“It’s okay,” she said, getting off the
V and kneeling in the street next to him. She pulled him to her
again and
wasn’t sure which if the two was more dangerous.
Mark tossed the helmet aside (“I had to
save up for months to get it,” he’d said with earnest pride just a
couple days earlier) and it skidded to stop at her feet. Along the
top there was a jagged crack forming, dotted with blood.
Mark had crawled atop Jack, grabbing a
handful of t-shirt with his left hand and slamming his right down
into Jack’s face.
“Leave . . . me . . . alone!” Mark
snarled, accentuating each word with a punch. Jack flailed his
arms, desperately and pitifully slapping at the punches as they
rained down on him.
“Mark!” she shouted, stepping forward,
but one of the boys that had surrounded them grabbed her wrist and
pulled her back.
“I don’t think so, bitch,” he said,
putting a hand on her shoulder and pulling her out of the way as he
walked past her. Jack’s other friend, who’d watched the whole thing
in gape-mouthed silence was shaken to action by his friend’s sudden
movement. Mark didn’t notice either of them, concentrating instead
on Jack’s bloody face.
Christine grabbed the boys hand before
he pulled away, and when he turned to look she swung her knee up
into his balls. His surprise turned into gasping pain and the
shocked look that boys got when every urban legend and health film
about exploded testicles flashed before their eyes.
She ran forward and got to the other
boy just before he grabbed Mark, slamming into him with all her
weight, and sending him skidding on his face across the gravel of
the parking lot.
“Mark!” Christine screamed, grabbing
the back of his jacket and trying to pull him to his
feet.
Mark turned and his eyes were blurry
with tears and squinted with concentrated hatred. For a second it
didn’t seem like he recognized her, but she grabbed his clenched
fist (it was sticky and hard to get a hold of) and pulled Mark away
from Jack’s stunned and moaning figure.
“We have to go!”
The fist in her hand began to tremble,
and she realized Mark was coming back from whatever ugly sinkhole
he’d lost himself in.
The kid Christine pushed had rolled
over and was glaring at them. Mark took a couple of steps back, and
then grinned, letting out a coughing, tear-choked laugh. He
stumbled towards the scooter, reaching down and scooping up his
helmet.
After a couple of false starts the
scooter lunged forward. Mark held the bloody helmet in his lap and
once she knew her grip on him was solid, she looked back to make
sure they weren’t being chased. Jack was sitting up and watching
them drive off, face spattered with blood and eyes burning with
impotent rage.
“Mark! Mark, slow down!
Please!”
A blurry car-esque shape sped in front
of him with a horn blaring and Mark realized he couldn’t see
clearly. He swerved out of the way, the V listing perilously.
Christine’s hold on him tightened and he could feel her face press
into his back.
For a way to go this
wouldn’t be half bad. Go out on a high note, right?
Once the scooter had righted itself he
slowed down and risked using a hand to wipe at his eyes. Once he
could see clearly he rounded a corner to a quiet side street,
pulled over to the curb and shut the engine off. He was panting,
wheezing in and out through a phlegm-packed nose, and his entire
body was shaking.
Well, it’s what you get for
acting like a rabid animal. Was it everything you hoped for,
killer? Better than the fantasy with the axe, or the one where
you’re strangling him in front of all of his smug fucking
friends?
She was tugging at him, trying to get
him to turn around and look at her. Whatever sudden
adrenaline-fueled strength he had was now gone, leaving only a
panic stricken mess. It was the last thing he wanted her to
see.
“Oh god, oh god,” he sobbed, pulling
away and putting his head on the handlebars.
“It’s okay,” she said, getting off the
V and kneeling in the street next to him. She pulled him to her
again and
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