"Loopy-Lucas! Loopy-Lucas!" Lucas kept his head down as the older boys taunted him, making fun of his family's reputation. It wasn't his fault his father was practically insane, wasn't his fault his mother was drunk most of the time. But the boys could blame him for it, they could taunt him, hit him, tell tales one him, insult his shabby clothes, his poor lunches. Lucas was nearing the breaking point, he was about to snap. Anger was burning inside him, ready to pop like a blister.
"Why do you do this to me?" He wanted to scream. "It ain't my fault! They beat me too! They beat my four-year-old siblings! You think I want to live like this? You think I chose this? Look at my back! See the marks? Look at my chest? See the burns from my drunk mother using me as an ashtray? I DIDN'T CHOSE MY LIFE!" But he knew that wouldn't do anything but increase the taunts. The boys were following him home, throwing the occasional punch, catching him in between the shoulder blades, in the back of the head. Clang-clang-clang! A paddy-wagon rushed down the street, it's bell ringing constantly. Another fire in the tenements, probably. But the smoke was close, too close to be any tenement but...Lucas took of running.
"Hey Loopy-Lucas! Are you a baby? Running away from us? Huh, Loopy-Lucas? Huh?" But Lucas could not be bothered. He had to get home. One more corner...Lucas stopped in horror. His building was burning. Flames were shooting out of the top floor, his floor, the floor where Aodh, Abela and his parents were. As he watched, the top floor collapsed, sending sparks up into the air. Lucas watched in horror as the sparks went up, came down, clumps of hot ashes, embers. He was walking slowly, slowly towards the scene of his home, his family burning. Screams were coming from inside the building. Horrible, heart-wrenching screams. Paddy-wagons came roaring up, trying, failing to stop the blaze. Lucas could feel ashes coming down as the next floor broke down, the fire eating away at the building, the building already weakened from years of mis repairs breaking, falling, down, down onto the ground. Lucas fell to the ground. His family, his mother, his father, Aodh, Abela, all gone. No way they had gotten out, not with his mother drunk or hungover and his father in the state he was usually in as he waited for Lucas to come home. He felt pain as embers burned into him, spotting his face, burning his shirt. But nothing meant anything. His mother he could live without. His father he could survive losing. But Aodh and Abela were his only joy, the only thing that had kept him alive as his family fell apart. And they were gone. No more. Lucas was lifted into the air, strong arms carrying him away from the burning embers.
"Son, son are you okay? Son?" Lucas screamed at the word son. Aodh and Abela were gone, nobody had the right to call him son, he would refuse to acknowledge it. He twisted free, threw the punch that had been building up inside him for three years. He felt fist connect with nose, felt blood flowing over his hand, felt a crack as he punched again, connecting once more. He ran, darting around arms reaching for him, running into an alley. They were gone, never again would he hear their sweet laughter, never again would he comfort them, never again would they comfort him. If they were gone, so was Lucas Edison Conlon. He felt the burns on his face, spots of red. Spot. Gone was Lucas Edison Conlon. Here was Spot Conlon. He would never show his emotion again. It would only lead to pain. He would never cry in public. It would only lead to hurt. He was Spot Conlon. He was tough. He would make his way in the world. Never again would anybody mess with him. No sir. He was his own master, his own bodyguard, his own. Nobody could or would mess with him. He was Spot Conlon.
Is it bad that I had fun writing that?
