A/N: Ah, where to begin? I suppose an apology is in order. I'm sorry. But in my defense though, I have damn good reason for my absence. Lets just say that my hiatus, as it were, was brought on by the need for lawyers and the loss of a large sum of money that numbers somewhere in the high tens of thousands (sigh). Needless to say, I had to shine my light through the inky blackness so that my muse could find her way back to the home she had wondered so far from. Anyways…let's get on with it.
"The fuck?" The giant boy said more to himself than aloud. How could this shrimpy little black kid stop one of his mega punches?
Huey had not taken his eyes off his opponent.
"Jazmine, get outta here."
By now the hall had cleared only a little, but not enough for a great deal of movement. Jazmine looked up and saw the trademark fro just ahead of her. Huey? He had stopped Butch?
"…Huey--"
"Jazmine NOW!"
There was no room for discussion. His words had a finality to them that was beyond the realm of contest—and it was that tone in his voice that had unglued the mulatto's feet from the floor. This movement didn't escape Butch.
"Like FUCK you're getting away!" he bellowed. For his size he was swift. He hadn't even finished his declaration before he was attempting to muscle Huey out of his path.
"I don't know what the hell you're problem is, but you're not gunna lay ah'hand on her." Huey announced as he pushed back on the hand that was trying to move him. This seemed to enrage the bully even more. With another of his large fists, he took a mighty swing at the newcomer, only to have it gracefully dodged as Huey bowed backward allowing the fat left fist to wiz over his head. There were too many other people around here that could be easily hurt by this guy—whatever was happening needed to be ended quickly.
When the giant recovered from his missed swing, he thundered around is right fist, which was stopped by Huey's open palm. Bringing around his left, Huey palm-canceled that attack as well. Was this cat gunna learn or what? There was a brief hesitation on Butch's part, and Huey saw an opening. With his left foot, he stepped high and kicked Butch on the inside of his right knee, causing the fat-ass to cry out and slump down onto his other knee. With him now down to his level, Huey let fly a powerful front kick with is left leg. Huey successfully connected with Butch's left hand, which had caught his ankle. Momentarily befuddled at the fact that his kick was stopped by someone who appeared to be a blubber-bound idiot, Huey was unprepared for the additional hand that joined the other on his leg and snatched him up into an arc over Butch's head, and hard to the floor behind him.
Huey jerked his arms up to absorb the resulting shock of the granite floor; displeased by this turn, he waited for the ogre to release his leg…which didn't actually happen. Like some slapstick cartoon, Butch reversed the same barbaric arc he sent Huey in before, repeating again the same stinging clap of bare skin on the hard smooth surface—if this continued, Huey's days could very well be numbered. Just as this thought had crossed his mind, Butch's grip shifted just a bit, allowing Huey enough time to see that his captor was still on one knee. As he began to lift Huey for another slam, Huey's free leg came close enough to Butch's face for him to kick him dead in it. There was a loud pain filled grunt, and Huey fell back to the floor, finally out of the Caucasian's vice-like grip. Scrambling to his feet, Huey managed to get passed his angry aggressor—he needed to find Riley and get him out of there.
Butch had since thrown his hands over his face—that had fucking hurt. After about a second did he drop his hands to reacquire his target, blood from his now busted lip panting his left palm and the underside of his labrum. Like an injured bull seeing red, Butch flew into something just shy of a crazy-man rage. Letting out a guttural howl borne from the reality that he was bleeding his own blood, Milosevic sliced around his wildly searching gaze for the one who managed to break his skin—finding him only a few steps away from where he stood.
"Get back here you fucker, you can't get away!" Milosevic screeched in pre-adolescent baritone. Normally Huey wouldn't have bothered to acknowledge this exceedingly worthless command, but the sudden, especially shrill terror-filled scream of a young child, beckoned a look over his shoulder. Huey couldn't keep his eyes from going wide as he saw Milosevic hoist over his head, like some sort of toy, a particularly small 3rd grade girl he had snatched from the crowd. A gnarled and bloody grin spread across his pasty, freckled face as he chirped his cruel taunt. "Catch, motherfucker!"
Now, granted that Huey was young, it was a given that he had not physically seen very much in his decade long life—but he had read enough periodicals, memoirs, and heard enough stories to know that people like Butch Magus Milosevic existed—but to see this shit in a lily-white suburban elementary school? It was fucking unreal.
As truly shocked as Huey was, he had no time to loose himself in thought. He had never entertained the idea of being a hero, or seen himself as championing anyone—but an innocent life was clearly at risk and it was against Huey's good conscious to allow someone as helpless as that come to harm when he could do something about it. Watching the terrified little girl fly though the air, Huey open wide his arms to both catch the girl and cushion her impact. In the instant that the child had firmly molded to Huey's torso, did he look over her golden-spun hair to see Milosevic charging at the both of them full force. Until that moment, Huey never understood the concept of 'slow motion'—that colorfully abstract term people would sometime use when they spoke of being in life-threatening situations or other traumatic events that would otherwise occur in mere half seconds.
Everything around him became muted—all the color faded from walls, the floor, the faces—the only thing he could see were the bright green eyes of the heavy-draught barreling toward him, and the only thing he could feel were the tiny fingernails of the girl digging into his skin through his shirt as she clung to him in fear. Unlike his brother, Huey was never one to dawdle in a fight; hesitation most often was met with injury or death—especially in situations like this. But then again, he never had to actually protect one that could not hold their own.
No—no fancy moves, no quick feet, no brilliant maneuver was at Huey's disposal—just the small girl and his lack of options. As the milliseconds slowly ticked by, Huey noted through his peripheral vision that there was nowhere for him to dodge to or even toss the girl without either one of them being somehow injured by the eminent onslaught that was Butch Magnus. Huey was now out of time. Doing the only thing that came to him at thought's highest speed—did he whirl about and drop to his knees, covering the girl in good effect. So small was the girl that she well fit in the narrow lee that Huey's crouching form provided.
No sooner had Huey steeled himself for the blow, did it fall with all the force to be expected from such a large, angry sociopath. He felt his muscles ripple and mercilessly constrict as the knuckles bruised the tissue to the ribs. The wash of oddly smothering pain galloped up Huey's right side and made his right ear feel as if it were draining in a small invisible river out of the canal, its precious orientating colloquial fluid. As the boy reeled from the blow, the next gunshot of a fist impacted just a little higher on the opposite side of his back sending an equally crippling pain across the span of his shoulder width, robbing him of already arrested breath. Butch's hand quickly filled with a fist full of Huey's wiry fro as he snatch upward, lifting up his tucked head and opening him for a blow to its lower underside in the space behind the left ear and ahead the nape of the neck. The force and trajectory of the punch plowed the area of the top corner of the right eye socket into the granite next to the little girl's head, splitting open his brow there.
All the while Butch stood there above them both—with that same bloody mouth pinned back in that sick, vengeful grin. Towering above all the children in the hall, Butch lifted a large, worn, orange-stained white sneaker (that in some distant past was once new) and pressed it in the center of Huey's back.
Somehow that horrible grin got wider.
Desperately low on air and weak from strong body blows he had sustained, Huey could just barely recognize that psycho's intent. Still crabbed over the child's small frame, Huey used what was left of his quickly waning strength to tense himself for what he knew was coming. In one deft move, the easily 185 pound Milosevic stepped up on Huey's slender back, letting his other foot hang in the air just off to the side.
One good bounce—that's all it would take—and Huey, along with the slight child beneath him, would be crushed under Butch's weight.
Breathing for him was now impossible. Every vein in his face and neck ballooned under the strain of effort; the split on his right brow let blood freely down the side of his face and neck, causing the collar of his dark blue cotton tee to become darker still as the dry fabric soaked the crimson fluid away. Huey's eyes, now bloodshot, looked down on the girl below—her own eyes screwed shut with fear. Perhaps it was good that she was not looking—he couldn't imagine anyone wanting to see what surly would have been in her field of vision.
As each asphyxiated moment choked by—bringing Huey that much closer to emanate muscle failure—he couldn't help but think of Riley. Of all things that could be going through his head at that exact moment—it was his brother. It was no one thought in particular. It was just his brother, almost as if it were like a…a feeling—some sort of curious sensation. Huey supposed then that he would not be speaking to him later…and for some odd reason, it seemed to him at that point only mildly regretful—like how one would feel after they accidentally killed a lightning-bug or a pretty butterfly. So this was the edge of delrium.
The edges of his vision were becoming gray and blurred…it wouldn't be long now. Huey could feel that tell-tail weight shift which signified that Butch would be following through with that life ending bounce that Huey had so grimly predicted. And so it was—through that terrible expression Butch wore upon his face—did as small shine of self-actualization show through…the bastard knew exactly what he was doing…
But just then something peculiar caught Butch's eye. Twitching up only his cucumber irises, he could only make out, coming over the crowd, something thin and dark before it fully consumed the scope of his sight. The feeling that came to him next could only be described as his entire face spider-webbing like a windshield with a bat through it. From all those thousands of interconnected cracks, fiery-cold liquid seeped through—pooling around his upper and lower gum-lines, unscrewing the teeth from his jaw. While this was happening, a sound—like an electric whistle sounding quietly from some far off place, rang lowly in his ears as his eyes recognized only a soft white haze around him. In the next moment—he knew he was on his back—it took a second longer, however, for the pain in his body to confirm that he had indeed fallen.
During all of this, Riley had pushed his way down the hall enough to reach the rows of stacked brown coated metal folding chairs that had been there since time the day before. When he saw Butch ascend to a height well above the rest of the children, did Riley throw with bizarre precision, the heavy metal chair at Butch's face. It had spun rapidly on its lateral axis, landing with a loud clang typical of a metal folding chair, in the dead center of Milosevic's head. Even from Riley's distance, could he see the blood drain from the behemoth's nose as he tipped back like some felled oak to the floor below.
Forcing his way back through the cattle-like school children, he came upon his brother who he had not seen collapse to one side, balled up next to the small (and now sobbing) 3rd grader. Riley felt his blood run cold when he saw all of Huey's on the side of his face.
"…Huey…"
The name came as a faint and far away whisper as Riley fell to his knees beside his battered kin—carefully rolling Huey's head into his lap. His breaths were deep, yet had a shallow sound to them. His brows were gently furrowed and he did not appear unconscious.
"Huey?" Riley asked again, lowly, tears blurring his vision so much that it seemed he was looking at his injured brother through an ocean's worth of water. Only when Riley moved his head did the pooling tears fall.
"Oh, dear God…get the medics over here quick." It was someone Riley could only assume was a teacher. From the sound of the stager in the voice, it seemed that the person, a male, was not expecting what he found. Then from behind, Riley felt a gentle, yet extremely firm grip on his left arm, pulling him up from where he knelt. Once on his feet, he recognized the all too familiar sound of cuffs adjusting on his slender wrists. Unbelievably, he made absolutely no protest as the male voice worriedly murmured, 'come on, son' as he was guided through the now clearing science hall. Outside he was led to the normally calm school front, now polluted with police cruisers, fire-house ambulances, and fire trucks; all their lights mutedly strobing against the bright blue sky.
A few more seconds passed and he found himself in the back of a squad-car that Jazmine was currently occupying, in cuffs herself. She was quietly staring at her feet at the time, well, more like looking through them. It was anyone's guess where she was then. Jazmine hadn't looked up when she was joined, so it was fairly clear she had no idea with whom she shared that leather backseat. The doors were closed and for a few moments, they sat in silence.
"…Jazmine?" The sound his voice made as it said her name seemed somehow stunted. The empty silence of before reclaimed the space of the cab as it swallowed the last extinguishing wisps of her spoken name. The silence then was deafening to Riley, the kind that dries mouths and turns stomachs. It was indeed unbearable—but ironically not so much as the sound of his voice that dared to penetrate it with words so worthless it burned him to utter them. "…I'm sorry…"
"…"
She said nothing, and Riley knew then that even though all was quiet in the car and it was clear that she heard him, she in fact had not. The light in her eyes that Riley always knew was there, but never paid any mind, had gone out—and he had damn noticed then.
How the fuck did this happen? What the hell went wrong? It wasn't supposed to be like this…just a scuffle at best; a few scratches and some hurt feelings—not this kind of raw violence. People were not suppose to get hurt; not Jazmine, especially not his brother, not the adults who were trying to break it up, and not any of the kids who were just too stupid and scared to get out of the damn way.
As he sat in the killing silence he shared with Jazmine, whom he was sure was in her own private hell, Riley realized that every child in that hall lost something that day…and Riley knew a great deal of that blame landed on him. How could he have done this? And what about Grandad? Sure he knew that his grandfather thought he was an ass—but what would he think of him now? When he found out, Riley was sure that he'd get much more than just a crack across the ass with his grandfather's belt.
Feeling more sober than anything, Riley finally looked out the window, which was covered by bars. Another ambulance, white, had entered the bus lanes that were already strangled tight with emergency vehicles—a number of onlookers had begun to gather around the fringes of the campus—no doubt attempting to ascertain what the terrible thing was that had obviously occurred in their quiet neighborhood, and at the elementary school no less. Then he saw it. One by one, people being carried out on gurneys—some adults, mostly children. From where he was, he could not make out who was who—that is, until a large body was being wheeled out. Butch of course—goddamn that fucker. After him, a large mass of dark hair—Huey, they had him strapped in well—those bright orange brace blocks on either side of his head were quite possibly the most visible thing Riley could see, and then was when it finally hit him. He did not cry though—his mind was so far beyond tears, his body couldn't even fathom them. It wasn't long after Riley saw his brother loaded into one of the many red ambulances did he find himself reeling from strange pain—he was in his own hell now, profound and inescapable it seemed…and so help him God it was just the beginning. Just what the fuck had he done?
A/N: I do hope that this story is back online now…I feel so bad to leave you guys hanging so long with that ridiculous cliffhanger…I just hope it doesn't happen again. Anyway, I'd like to say that this arc of the story is just about over. I'd also like to say that from this, there will be borne some interesting conflicts. I think my fire is back!