The Rebellion
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There had been seven instances now. Before this, before school, there was only three. But now that school has started up again there seems to be easier access to him.
I saw him once or twice stumbling down through the hallway of the school while I was sitting in Biology Class learning the joys of DNA and RNA.
This time, as all the others, I could barely see his face over the top of the door bar so I pretend to drop my pencil so I could see him from under the bar.
He was all messed up. His nose was disjointed and his eye was getting ready to swell closed. A streak of red was smeared unceremoniously down the side of his face -the side I could see- and the front of his white shirt was splattered. His knuckles looked only a little bit bruised so he obviously didn't get much of his own hits in. He swaggered in his step and stumbled to the floor, trying to catch his breath.
I could hear selective gasps coming from outside of the room and, more selectively, little chuckles of laughter, as they spotted him. He coughed and stood shakily to his feet as my hand shot up.
"I need to go to my dentist appointment, Mrs. Dennison," I drawled. She waved me off and I tripped grabbing my bookbag as I headed out the door to his aide-- echoes of my classmates snickers following in my shadow.
"Man," I said, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him to his feet, "Are you alright? They got ya bad this time, didn't they?"
The boy nodded, sprits of blood splatting onto my own white t-shirt. When he put his head down in shame, I cursed the school's regulation white uniform t-shirt.
"Hey, it's okay Malcolm, kid," I smiled reassuringly and hefted my arm around his back. He put his arm over my shoulders almost mechanically and we walked down the hall as he leaned on me for support.
It was de-ja-vu. This had all happened before, several several times, and the only thing that ever changed was the class that I decided to skip out on to help him and the phony excuse I made-up on the spot.
Not that I'm complaining. This boy, he had courage. Real courage. But at the same time, he had more fear in him than any person I had ever known in all of my nineteen years of life. And he was only thirteen.
We took a left towards the exit.
We were going to my house. If we had gone to the nurse then Malcolm's father would have found out and he would be punished. It sounds strange to any normal person, but his family wasn't all that normal. A military family, the father... the grandfather... and his father before him... were all a line of strong, tall military men that served in the Navy.
The boy that stumbled along next to me, seemingly bleeding out of every oraphace visable, was supposed to be one of those men. But how can this scrawny, little kid who watches the world from barely five feet off the ground be much of a defense from three boys on the wrestling team that reach six feet in height?
So we were going to my house.
My father was out, working on his starship project, so we would be alone.
"Who was it this time?" I asked.
The boy coughed, "D-Drake." He coughed again.
"Yeh, alright," I nodded. Antony Drake was the likely suspect. He was the one who was behind everything, I know it, as the others call him boss. Drake is the type of kid that would end up in jail before the age of 20. I say 'would' because he was the richest kid in the entire town.
"What's up with that?" I wondered, noticing the light to the kitchen on. Father wasn't supposed to be home.
So we entered anyways and came face to face with Joden, my younger brother. A devilish smile crossed his face.
"Joden,"I said quietly, "Joden, what are you doing with Father's gun?"
He aimed it at Malcolm.
My eyes went wide.
Joden giggled as he pulled the trigger.
----------------------------
There had been seven instances now. Before this, before school, there was only three. But now that school has started up again there seems to be easier access to him.
I saw him once or twice stumbling down through the hallway of the school while I was sitting in Biology Class learning the joys of DNA and RNA.
This time, as all the others, I could barely see his face over the top of the door bar so I pretend to drop my pencil so I could see him from under the bar.
He was all messed up. His nose was disjointed and his eye was getting ready to swell closed. A streak of red was smeared unceremoniously down the side of his face -the side I could see- and the front of his white shirt was splattered. His knuckles looked only a little bit bruised so he obviously didn't get much of his own hits in. He swaggered in his step and stumbled to the floor, trying to catch his breath.
I could hear selective gasps coming from outside of the room and, more selectively, little chuckles of laughter, as they spotted him. He coughed and stood shakily to his feet as my hand shot up.
"I need to go to my dentist appointment, Mrs. Dennison," I drawled. She waved me off and I tripped grabbing my bookbag as I headed out the door to his aide-- echoes of my classmates snickers following in my shadow.
"Man," I said, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him to his feet, "Are you alright? They got ya bad this time, didn't they?"
The boy nodded, sprits of blood splatting onto my own white t-shirt. When he put his head down in shame, I cursed the school's regulation white uniform t-shirt.
"Hey, it's okay Malcolm, kid," I smiled reassuringly and hefted my arm around his back. He put his arm over my shoulders almost mechanically and we walked down the hall as he leaned on me for support.
It was de-ja-vu. This had all happened before, several several times, and the only thing that ever changed was the class that I decided to skip out on to help him and the phony excuse I made-up on the spot.
Not that I'm complaining. This boy, he had courage. Real courage. But at the same time, he had more fear in him than any person I had ever known in all of my nineteen years of life. And he was only thirteen.
We took a left towards the exit.
We were going to my house. If we had gone to the nurse then Malcolm's father would have found out and he would be punished. It sounds strange to any normal person, but his family wasn't all that normal. A military family, the father... the grandfather... and his father before him... were all a line of strong, tall military men that served in the Navy.
The boy that stumbled along next to me, seemingly bleeding out of every oraphace visable, was supposed to be one of those men. But how can this scrawny, little kid who watches the world from barely five feet off the ground be much of a defense from three boys on the wrestling team that reach six feet in height?
So we were going to my house.
My father was out, working on his starship project, so we would be alone.
"Who was it this time?" I asked.
The boy coughed, "D-Drake." He coughed again.
"Yeh, alright," I nodded. Antony Drake was the likely suspect. He was the one who was behind everything, I know it, as the others call him boss. Drake is the type of kid that would end up in jail before the age of 20. I say 'would' because he was the richest kid in the entire town.
"What's up with that?" I wondered, noticing the light to the kitchen on. Father wasn't supposed to be home.
So we entered anyways and came face to face with Joden, my younger brother. A devilish smile crossed his face.
"Joden,"I said quietly, "Joden, what are you doing with Father's gun?"
He aimed it at Malcolm.
My eyes went wide.
Joden giggled as he pulled the trigger.