He sucked air through tight lips, obeying the scream of his starving lungs in spite of the strong protests of his aching ribs. The next punch hit him square in the jaw. He felt his teeth clatter as the soft tissue on the inside of his mouth ripped across a jagged edge. He wobbled a little against the blow, but stayed standing. If Arlo had prepared him for anything besides hard drinking, it was how to take a punch. He smiled a big, goofy, red-tinged smile and spit at his opponents feet.
He blinked at his opponent, shook his head slowly and tried to focus. He was tired. His muscles and lungs were on fire. His head was swimming. All he wanted was some rest. This guy didn't look like he was quite finished wailing on Raylan, though. He concentrated on his breath whistling in and out of his blood-crusted nostrils. The three images that were the asshole merged into one again and his body took over. His fist clenched, joints popping, torn skin stretching across calloused knuckles. His arm drew back of it's own accord. His front foot rooted itself firmly to the ground. Energy surged through the floor and up through his leg, pivoting at his hip and propelling his fist directly into the kid's nose. He felt bones and cartilage crunch like wet gravel beneath his hand. Blood gushed from the boy's nose like a river, staining his crisp white shirt an ugly crimson red. The boy's hands cupped reflexively to his face, quickly filling with the flowing life. He bent at the waist and fell to his knees. Raylan kicked him once, hard, and with malice, directly in the solar plexus, taking all of the wind from his lungs. He looked down on the boy, quivering and gasping for breath in a puddle of gore and quirked his lips into an oddly feral grin. It felt good to be the one left standing for once.
He hobbled off to nurse his wounds and a jar of white lightning, leaving the boy semi-conscious and completely alone. He opened the door to his sparsely furnished dorm room and flicked on the harsh fluorescent overhead light. The unwashed laundry and the rumpled bed linens were illuminated with the yellow glow. He limped over to his mini-fridge and pulled out an unlabeled mason jar. He flopped on his twin-sized bed and set the sweating jar at his feet. He reached a lanky arm over to the dirty nightstand and pulled out the well-worn and blood-stained first aid kit kept there. Supplies were running low; just an ice pack, aspirin, gauze and peroxide left. He'd have to remember to stop by the drug store and restock- that is, if he can remember anything from tonight after he finishes that 'shine. Maybe he should write himself a note, he thought, as he absently soaked some gauze with disinfectant. He wasn't sure his mangled hand could hold a pen. He cussed as he watched the peroxide bubble the blood on his knuckles and turn his ragged skin corpse-white. He kneaded the ice pack to mix it's chemicals and placed it gingerly to his sore jaw.
He took a long pull on his hooch and closed his eyes as it scorched its way down to his belly. It was a wonderful feeling; warm, fuzzy and dull. He laid back on his bed and let the sensation wash over him. He sunk into the welcome white nothingness behind his eyelids. He opened his eyes and looked at his desk. The molecules on his chemistry notebook stared back at him, accusingly. Shit. Test tomorrow and he hadn't so much as skimmed his text.
He breathed out an exasperated sigh and screwed the cap back on his nearly untouched Mountain Dew. That particularly splendid liver and brain chemistry would have to wait until the boring book chemistry was done.
He studied until his eyelid swelled shut. He figured he'd learned enough nomenclature and stereo-chemistry to pass his test, any how. Hopefully Professor Knight didn't ask any 'predict the products' questions. He hadn't worked enough equations yet to get good at those. He glanced over his notes, studying the little brown smudges his weeping knuckles left over his script more than the words themselves.
He stretched the muscles in his forearms, rolled his shoulders and tweaked his back to the side before laying face down on his tiny bed. His boot-clad feet dangled off the end. The crisp pillow felt nice on his cheek, though his head seemed abnormally heavy as it crushed his puffy eye. He put his now-nearly-room-temperature ice pack on his aching hand. That glistening glass jar was talking to him again, whispering sweet nothings in his ear. He let his good arm loosely swing off the bed until his fingertips brushed the damp coolness. He blindly lifted it and unscrewed the cap with one hand, without even rolling over. The thought of lifting his head more than absolutely necessary or twisting his sore ribs one more time was unthinkable. He slurped the spirits up like a horse at a watering trough, not caring as it dribbled onto his pillow case and sheets.
He drew phenyl groups, esters and nitriles. He worked addition, substitution and elimination reactions. He tautomerized and rearranged. He pushed pi electrons and drank until the warm fuzzy liquid-static took him over and carried him off to blissful unawareness.