Warnings:
Violence and swearing. Lots of it.
xxx
If he were looking back on it, he probably would've known this wasn't going to end well. Then again, it was equally likely that he would've got involved anyway. Him and his guilty fucking conscience, it was going to get him killed one of these days. It wasn't even as if it was anything unusual, a kid getting beat on, not in this neighbourhood anyhow. Out here it was beat or be beaten. Everyone knew that – or wised up pretty quick after the first couple of rounds of having the crap kicked out of them.
He didn't know what made him go back. He wasn't the type to go looking for trouble: not particularly interested in following the rules either, but smart enough to know that, whatever it was, it wasn't worth his time. Usually.
Today obviously was not 'usually'.
Same alley, same wanna-be-gangsters beating the same shit out of the same nameless faceless nobody as last week and the week before and the goddamn week before that.
What made today different? He didn't know, just didn't know.
Maybe it was the rain; it always made him moody, set him on edge until he could hear the thrumming beat of his heart in his ears and the crackle of his nerves under his skin - his whole body alive with electricity and restless energy. Maybe the quiet – not even the rush of traffic or the angry blare of a car horn could be heard, only the hiss of the rain as it fell and the dull crunch of fists and boots meeting flesh and bone.
Wouldn't someone usually cry out...?
Maybe that was the clincher. Get beat up, lose a couple teeth, break a few ribs, so what? No big deal. Cry and shout and scream at the time 'cause it fucking hurts, but later, once it's all over, you heal, you survive. You live, 'cause there's nothing else to do except carry on.
This guy wasn't crying. Wasn't screaming either.
He couldn't let it go. He knew it was stupid. One minute he was on the way back to his flat, minding his own business, the next he was sinking a punch into some unlucky sucker's gut. It was all kinds of stupid. Who'd he think he was anyway, bloody Robocop or something? For all he knew they could be packing heat, and then where would he be? Just another name on the mortuary register. It wasn't even news-worthy in these parts. If he were lucky maybe he'd get a one liner or something in the corner of the local newspaper: 'Two dead in back alley shoot-up – police have no suspects'. The 'because they don't give a shit' would go unsaid. No need to repeat what was common knowledge, after all.
But God, how he'd missed this: the rush of air past his face as his enemy swings wide, missing him again; the satisfying sound of a groan as his hit connects and the reverberating echo of pain that shoots down into his bones; the adrenaline streaming through his veins, pushing him faster and faster and faster. He can feel his lips stretched wide over his teeth in a mocking parody of a smile and he can't remember if he's blinked at all and through his battle-crazed haze he can see his fists gleam crimson, painted in the blood of his adversaries. He's pretty sure he looks fucking insane. His grin widens.
Fuck, he'd forgotten how good this felt. The fiendish thrill of victory is singing through every fibre of his being, rushing to his head and making his vision swim as he watches the thugs scramble and crawl to get away from him, utterly defeated.
He feels wicked. He feels invincible. He feels alive.
How long had it been...?
It doesn't matter. Nothing matters right now. Every nerve is hypersensitive, the overload of information forcing into his brain elbowing anything else out of its way, anything rational getting lost in the maelstrom of sensation that eddies and whirls its way through him.
He later supposes that he should've been worried, that he shouldn't have taken the whole thing so lightly – it's not every day you randomly beat up some strangers is it? Well, it's not every day he beats up random strangers. Not like the filth would give a damn, but it's easy to make enemies. Not so easy to get rid of them.
There's a movement in the alley behind him. How he knows, he doesn't have a clue. He can't see them 'cause he doesn't have eyes in the back of his head, can't smell them 'cause the acrid stench of piss and blood and vomit is overpowering and can't hear them 'cause the drumming of the rain and pounding of his heart in his ears drowns out anything else. But he knows they're there, sure as he knows the earth goes round the sun, sure as what goes up must come down. Whatever. He's ready for them, so they can kiss leaving here in one piece goodbye.
And then he whirls round, all guns blazing, ready to give 'em hell – and stops, dead in his tracks. Because his phantom enemy isn't an enemy at all. It's a kid. Their eyes lock for a fraction of a second and then the kid's off, sprinting out the alleyway like the hounds of hell are hot on his heels, and he doesn't time to call out – breathe – think – before he's alone again with only the rain for company and silence for his thanks.
And despite it all, the only thing that comes to mind is:
Who the fuck has green hair?
xxx
He's fumbling with his keys. It's pissing him off the way his hands are shaking like he's a druggie who's just got his fix and how stupidly desperate he is to get inside, get safe and his bloody key won't go into the bloody lock and all the while there's this churning in his gut almost like he's gunna hurl but not quite and he really, really doesn't want to do that on his own front doorstep 'cause this place is shitty enough without redecorating chunder-style. And 'cause he can sense the stares of the good-for-nothings loitering on the stairwell (he must have passed them on the way up. He must've, so why can't he remember...?) and if you give 'em one hint, one tiny sniff of weakness it'll be like a pack of hyena all over carrion. He's not dead-meat yet, god-damnit.
Yesyesyes. And just like that he's praising all the deities he can't believe in, won't believe in, because his key has just slid into the lock and with one flick of his wrist he's in. Slamming the door, locking and bolting it against the world 'cause everybody knows that's the way it is - just you against every other fucker on this miserable planet - and anyone who says otherwise is a user. Or just unbelievably naïve.
His memory is coming in fits and starts. He knows 'cause last thing he knew he was stumbling around in the dark hallway and now here he is, standing under the stark light of the bare bulb in his bathroom, hands gripping the sides of his sink and staring into a face he can't recognise. Doesn't want to recognise.
What's wrong with me?
He looks like shit. His skin is grey and cold and lifeless, his eyes bloodshot red – like a zombie from a bad low-budget horror film. His hands are still shaking. He's stares down at them as if to say, "What the hell are you doing?" like it's a betrayal of some kind – 'cause they're not supposed to move if he doesn't tell them to, damn it.
He hates it. Hates it so fucking much. He wants to scream. This isn't him. He isn't like this. This creature in front of him, this cold, wet, piteous thing – it isn't him. Everything he's feeling broils in his gut, threatening to force its way up his throat, to crawl out of his mouth.
Loathing.
Disgust.
Fear.
He's curled up in a ball on his bathroom floor, huddled in on himself like he can block the world out, cheek pressed close against the cold, cheap lino. He can't remember when he last felt this bad.
How long had it been...?
Not long enough.
xxx
Author's notes:
Sorry this chapter is so short... (and that it took so long for me to write it) I was kinda planning on it being longer, but it has obviously decided not to cooperate with me. There is also a lot (slight understatement) of swearing/slang/improper use of grammar as I wanted to make it seem more 'real' - sorry if this makes it hard to understand or enjoy.
Carinya
P.s. In case you aren't familiar with some of the slang there is a handy outline below:
To chunder = to throw up/vomit so chunder-style = vomit-style
The filth = a rude term for police