"We're gonna fucking kill you," Bob the soc was drunk, his vision blurred, his speech just on the edge of slurred. The fading afternoon light hurt his eyes. They'd caught the scared looking kid in the vacant lot on the wrong side of town and now he was going to kill him, or come as close as he could.
The kid struggled in their grasp but two of them were holding him and he couldn't break free. He was small for his age but a decent enough fighter, but he couldn't fight against so many.
"Bob, c'mon," Randy, Bob's best friend, wasn't drunk, and he recognized the vicious look in Bob's eyes, the drunk, stupid, I'll stop at nothing look that had got him into trouble in the past. He reached out to touch Bob's arm and Bob shrugged him off, and there was so much violence in that simple shrugging off that Randy feared for this kid. He looked at him, at the black greasy hair that gleamed in the fading light, at his big dark eyes that were letting the fear into them now. The tough blank look he'd had at first was cracking.
"Randy…" Bob said, stumbling where he stood, still clutching his flask of whiskey, spilling a few drops to the ground. Randy looked at the lot they were in, crab grass and broken bits of coke bottles and crumbled empty cigarette packs. He looked at the road and the crumbling buildings behind it. 20 miles from where they lived and it was like a different world. This kid was small and skinny, his jeans almost slipping off of his slim hips, his big eyes looking larger still because there was just no weight in his face.
"Back off, Jesus!" Bob said, still retaining his authority as leader of their group despite being almost falling down drunk. He punched the kid suddenly, and despite being held with his arms behind his back by two of the others he doubled up in pain, his eyes squeezing shut.
"Bob-" Randy tried again, but Bob punched the kid again, this time in the face, his ring catching him by the cheekbone and drawing blood. Then he kicked him, and the others laughed, laughs as vicious as Bob's shrug. Randy saw the kid trying to break free, trying to curl up and away from any more hits or kicks, and he couldn't. The other two were strong, they were all varsity players of some sport or another. They all ate much better than this kid seemed to, when his shirt lifted Randy could count all his ribs, and they were already bruised, fading yellows and sickly greens.
The kid was bleeding now, the gash in his cheek was pouring blood, and his lip had split open and was bleeding, too. When he was punched or kicked he'd groan, but other than that he didn't make a sound, not a whimper, not a word to plead with them to stop.
What am I doing here? Randy wondered this, glancing at the clouds that were in the sky as the sunset came and turned them orange and red and cotton candy blue. Why was he here helping to beat up a poor kid who already got beat up by someone or other already, a poor kid with none of the advantages he had? Bob was here because he was drunk, and he was mean, and this was a safe place to let that out. No one cared if he beat up a greaser or two. The others were here because they were followers and would do whatever Bob said to do.
The other two dropped the kid to the ground, now that he was bloody and nearly unconscious. He curled up a little and moaned but didn't move, didn't get up and try to run. He was beyond that now. Bob tossed his flask down to become more rotting junk in the scrub brush lot, and he was going to go at the kid again, but Randy grabbed him.
"Hey!" Bob said, pulling and tugging away from Randy, but he held on.
"Hey, quit it! You're gonna fucking kill this kid for real and then what?" Randy said, his eyes blazing now with anger of his own. He didn't want to be doing this. He didn't want to be beating up poor defenseless kids, the type his parents went to fundraisers for, and he knew what went on here. He knew about the alcoholic and abusive parents, the lack of food and services, the hopelessness that was here and they were adding to it, and why? Because Bob was an out of control alcoholic with issues of his own?
Bob got in one more swift kick to the kid's bruised ribs, maybe breaking a couple of them. Now the kid didn't moan or move or anything. Maybe he was dead. Randy felt a sharp fear at that, knowing that despite his reservations he was here and a part of this crime, if it came to that.
"Go to the car, you're drunk! Tom, take him to the goddamn car!" Randy yelled at Tom the follower in his expensive sweater and button up shirt beneath that, fine linens and silk that his father purchased from Italy.
Bob was dragged to the car as the light continued to fade, turning a liquid gold, casting its long shadows. Randy knelt down so he could get a closer look at this kid and reassure himself that he was alive, at least. He was bleeding, the blood had splattered the thin white T-shirt he wore. He was breathing, ragged breaths that tore from his mouth, because his nose was bleeding, too.
"Hey," Randy said, his voice soft, and gently he shook the kid, not wanting to hurt him anymore. He moaned and pulled away. He was alive. Randy took a deep, shuddery breath and heard footsteps in the distance. In the dim light he could make out three or four other hoodlums making their way in this direction, and hopefully they'd find this kid and take care of him.
Before he stood up and ran for the car, he brushed the kid's greasy black hair away from his forehead.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, and stood, and sprinted for the car.