I was walking back from a gig when he ran past me, nearly knocking me off my feet. I didn't get a good look at him, but he was a kid, maybe a couple years younger than me and a few inches shorter. He had blonde hair that stuck up in all directions and he was wearing a plaid coat. That thing was ugly.
"Hey!" I shouted after him as I nearly tripped off the sidewalk.
He stopped, but didn't turn, his head down, his fists clenched by his sides. What was this kid's deal? Yelling was just a reflex, but I thought I should talk to him. He looked… well, off.
I jogged to catch up with him, on edge that he'd run off again. He stood stock still, still staring at the ground.
"You… okay?" I asked as I reached him. He didn't answer, just kept standing there. Geez, why even stop if he wasn't going to talk to me?
I put a hand on his shoulder as I stood in front of him, ducking to see his face.
Oh.
Oh.
His right cheek was one big bruise, and his nose was bleeding, as well as his lip. His forehead was lined with scratches, and the rest of his face was streaked with dirt and blood. A pair of slightly bent glasses sat on his nose. and behind them, bright blue eyes, still focused on the ground, as tears ran from them.
"Do you know who did this to you, kid?" I said gently.
He looked up to meet me in the eye, as if, for the first time, he'd realized I was standing in front of him.
He took a step back, shaking my hand from his shoulder.
"No." He had this fierceness in his eyes, even so, like he dared me to say otherwise. Or dared me to hit him, too.
I reached in my back pocket and pulled out the sweat rag I still had from my gig. Maybe not the cleanest, but it was something. I held it in his direction, and he stared at it a moment before taking it, although he made no move to clean his face. He looked back at the ground, dropping his hands at his sides.
"You have anywhere to stay, kid?" It slipped from my mouth before I even thought of it. Collins would, sure, but me? I wasn't the gathering-strays type.
"W…what makes you think I wouldn't?" he shot back, but the tremor in his voice gave him away.
I sighed. "Come on, then." I put my arm around his shoulder and started to herd him in the direction of home. He made no move to stop me, walking numbly alongside me.
It was a minute before he reached up to wipe the blood from his nose.
"It's Mark Cohen," he said, holding out a hand. "Not kid."
"Huh?" I looked over at him.
"Mark Cohen," he repeated.
"Oh." I took my arm from around his shoulder to shake the offered hand, which was now also covered in blood, despite the rag.
"Roger Davis.