Victimized by Richard Thomas Page A

pulls his fist from ten years ago, up past his hip, and the crowd goes silent. We all see it. The left-right step, left hand crossing over, then cocking back, right hand moving forward, one smooth motion as if he composed it yesterday. I can’t believe I didn’t see these paws before. They were hidden on his flank, two sledgehammers at the end of his arms. Right before contact, a second before the stain’s nose is smashed into his face, before the blood flows and cartilage snaps, the smile leaves his face. Now he knows. He screwed up.
    I feel a tingling sensation between my legs. My mouth opens and I gasp into the foul air, my secret lost in the screams of the room. It will be a long night. I have things to work out. And I won’t be alone.
    The fist connects, filling the face until I fear it may push through. One shot. That’s all it will take. The old man exhales, the grunt of an avenging angel who has fallen so far that the only way is up. Up through the face of the random stranger who took it all away. The thin limbs shoot out as his face crumples in on itself, the nose shifting to one side, a flow of crimson pouring down his face. It covers his chest and seeps into his shorts. Teeth snap, and imbed in the knuckles of the giant fist that has eclipsed the sun. Legs kick out as he falls backwards with an empty thud. A jolt of his legs and he is still, a trickle of urine running out of his shorts, his bare skin pink, before it fades to gray.
    Standing over him, the aging hulk wants more. He grabs the flaccid neck and picks it up. Cocking his fist, he holds the scrawny frame, arms trembling, a gust of air flowing out of him. And then another. He drops the man, and steps away, head hung. Turning to the side he retches. Wiping his mouth, he walks away. It is done now, and it was never what he wanted. But he had no choice.
    The ape in front of me hands me back three bills and walks down the steps. My winnings will be spent, every cent. I can’t have that taint on me. Even in the death of the miserable, the wasted, I cannot celebrate. A smile fills my face as I plan his execution. I will practice tonight on the drunken flesh of the nearest golem.

    #

    They all blur together, these memories. Bits and pieces that I repressed for so long. That I chose not to believe, for my sanity. They have something in common, these moments he stole from me, these bits of me he took. They are all wrapped in an uneasy blanket. His hands were hands I trusted. His caress was one I longed for, out of love, this love of family, the undying depth we had, that filled me up and gave me peace. This ate at me, like a rash on my skin, and I scratched until it bled.
    Some nights when I can’t sleep, they come to me, these moments. Scattered and grainy, fast cut edits, slicing through the dark sky. In these moments, I am restless and uneasy, and I hear his footsteps in the hall.
    “Uncle Jon, is that you?”
    “Shhhh baby, I just came to tuck you in.”
    Crickets out the open window, fireflies flickering in the dark.
    “You should be asleep Annabelle. School tomorrow.”
    “I know. It’s too hot out.”
    “Well take off your nightie sweetheart, I’ll help you.”
    It was always my naked flesh, this innocence that I’d had forever, unable to act any other way. So I never considered what I did, or how he reacted. I didn’t think twice about the situations I was in, and how he appeared, a silent ghost on the wind, waiting to help me.
    “Aren’t you going swimming Anna?”
    “I’m coming, just putting my suit on. It keeps getting stuck, the crisscross thingy in the back.”
    “Here sweetie, I’ll help you. You’ve got it all tangled up. Here, take it off. All the way off. Okay, now turn around and step into it. There you go. You got it now.”
    Where were my parents? Oh. Right.
    He was always eager to help out, to babysit. Go out and have some fun, he’d say. Go see that movie, have some drinks, relax. I’ll stay with Annabelle.
    “It’s