Okay so maybe I did have to bust Henry in the jaw!
I held my hands under the cool clean water, left hand cradling the right. Damn it hurt, but fat chance that anyone else would see me flinch. I was starting to think my reputation was the only thing keeping me alive.
When I had walked into camp at twilight Henry had been surrounded by his usual crowd of idiots. They were laughing loud enough to hear at the other end of the camp. But he stopped when I came into view. The crowd turned and followed his gaze, swallowing their laughter. He paled when I met his eyes; I smiled. I guess it wasn’t a joke. He really though I wouldn’t make it back.
I didn’t leave him anytime to say something defensive. I drew my arm back and cold cocked his dumb ass. He went down hard and I straightened; my eyes searching the crowd for an aggressor. I worked hard not to flex my hand while it zinged with pain. The crowd was silent, not a word spoken. As my eye’s searched them they stagger back. Spooked.
When Henry started to twitch on the ground I glanced down at him. He'd rolled over and put his hand lightly to the left side of his face. His eyes were twisted with rage and embarrassment. I didn’t blame him. He stayed as he was and I gave him the deadliest stare I could muster. He didn’t recoil or look away; stupid, just plain stupid. But I didn’t say anything; I just turned and walked away. No one tried to stop me. Bully for them.
I was pissed… once again.
I walked slowly, shoulders back, chin down, stride strong. I was expecting the Choose, our leaders, to stop me or say something, to chastise me. No one stopped me. I made my way to my hutch.
My home was small, clean, and so pretty to look at. The back was precariously close to a tall oak tree; whose canopy blossomed over my little dwelling like a second roof. Wild flowers had claimed most of the mossy siding, glowing with color and smelling lovely. The door was rectangular, with ornate carvings, painted an unusual clay red color. It was faded and overgrown, but it was mine.
I walk forward remembering one of the only memories I had of my father. He was carving the ornate designs while it hung in the sunlight. My mother stood nearby drawing pictures in the sandy ground teaching me what they meant. I stroked my finger through a grove he’d cut his finger making. I smiled while I pulled the door wide. Kind as he'd been... he would have punched Henry too.
I held my hands under the cool clean water, left hand cradling the right. Damn it hurt, but fat chance that anyone else would see me flinch. I was starting to think my reputation was the only thing keeping me alive.
When I had walked into camp at twilight Henry had been surrounded by his usual crowd of idiots. They were laughing loud enough to hear at the other end of the camp. But he stopped when I came into view. The crowd turned and followed his gaze, swallowing their laughter. He paled when I met his eyes; I smiled. I guess it wasn’t a joke. He really though I wouldn’t make it back.
I didn’t leave him anytime to say something defensive. I drew my arm back and cold cocked his dumb ass. He went down hard and I straightened; my eyes searching the crowd for an aggressor. I worked hard not to flex my hand while it zinged with pain. The crowd was silent, not a word spoken. As my eye’s searched them they stagger back. Spooked.
When Henry started to twitch on the ground I glanced down at him. He'd rolled over and put his hand lightly to the left side of his face. His eyes were twisted with rage and embarrassment. I didn’t blame him. He stayed as he was and I gave him the deadliest stare I could muster. He didn’t recoil or look away; stupid, just plain stupid. But I didn’t say anything; I just turned and walked away. No one tried to stop me. Bully for them.
I was pissed… once again.
I walked slowly, shoulders back, chin down, stride strong. I was expecting the Choose, our leaders, to stop me or say something, to chastise me. No one stopped me. I made my way to my hutch.
My home was small, clean, and so pretty to look at. The back was precariously close to a tall oak tree; whose canopy blossomed over my little dwelling like a second roof. Wild flowers had claimed most of the mossy siding, glowing with color and smelling lovely. The door was rectangular, with ornate carvings, painted an unusual clay red color. It was faded and overgrown, but it was mine.
I walk forward remembering one of the only memories I had of my father. He was carving the ornate designs while it hung in the sunlight. My mother stood nearby drawing pictures in the sandy ground teaching me what they meant. I stroked my finger through a grove he’d cut his finger making. I smiled while I pulled the door wide. Kind as he'd been... he would have punched Henry too.
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