Empty Room With A Song

by death-in-the-orchard

Alexander Anderson, the high school senior, quarterback, rich kid; clashes with the withdrawn, troubled teen who goes by the name Hell Dog or Alucard on the streets and by Vlad at school...here is their struggle to survive. Note: This is not yaoi.

22. Chapter 19

His uncle didn't take him out very often. Well, "out" being… something work related… At least, that's how Vlad saw it. Work stuff. Illegal, but okay since Uncle does it and he's super smart and wouldn't do anything bad. But Vlad enjoyed spending time with his uncle, though he spent 80% of that time with Joel.

Vlad was scrunched into a chair that was backed up against the wall, his chin on his knees, debating whether or not it would be inappropriate to close his eyes. He wasn't intending on taking a nap. Just shutting his eyes for a bit. But he perked up as a large shape rolled by, and Joel looked down at the skinny kid. The giant grinned, causing Vlad to catch the smile-virus Joel was so adept at spreading, and he beamed back, even as Joel nearly pushed him out of the chair as he ruffled Vlad's wild hair. "What's your uncle's opinion on you getting a decent hair-cut?"

A snicker wavered beneath the ruffling giant hand. It became a regular chuckle when Joel picked out a long black lock of hair and held it up to measure it with his mental ruler. Vlad laughed as he noticed how long his hair was when straightened from its natural waves. "Does it look like my uncle thinks haircuts are all that important?"

Joel glanced down, frowning slightly as he worked with the words and connected them with W.C.D.

Bright red eyes gleamed as Vlad continued to smile, "And what about you? Your hair's at least as long as mine. At least."

"Oh, but I tie up my hair." Joel's dark eyes crinkled as he gained the upper hand, literally placing his giant hand on the boy's head and patting it into submission. He laid out his sentence physically, a word for each pat, "And. So. Does. Your. Uncle." Joel ruffled Vlad's hair roughly, "Tame that wild mane already."

A child's laughter piqued the interest of a few bodies in the next room, the room Joel had just come from and to which he was now returning, having suggested that Vlad go play outside, given that his better-than-average hearing might get him into trouble. Joel shut the door around the same time Vlad was shutting the front door behind him, and while Joel turned to the table loaded with faces, Vlad turned to the empty alleyway.

The preteen in scuffed jeans and a black hoody scrunched himself onto a tiny, yet steep, concrete step. And the sound of boys drifted towards him, so that he looked on as a small group sauntered around the corner of a building and, as usual, didn't pay any attention to Vlad. But that was alright. Vlad rarely got attention that was actually worth having. He liked watching kids his age. Jake called it "People Watching," and if it had its own name and was actually called something, then of course it was totally normal. People watching was funny, in that it wasn't quite like watching animals at a zoo. Although, to be honest, Vlad had never been to a zoo. He just assumed the right to claim the experience, since it was supposed to be a common thing that everybody did, and all that. People watching was more like watching TV. It was fun. If the people on TV were having fun, you were having fun. If something dramatic was going on, it was really interesting. And Vlad probably enjoyed people watching more than other 6th graders, since his uncle didn't have a TV. Television makes you stupid. Vlad pondered for a moment, trying to find some process of 'stupidification' that might come from people watching. You could watch people do stupid things in real life, and that was a way of learning without having to do those stupid things yourself.

Vlad felt pretty good about his hobby, now that he'd thought it through, and the good feelings snuck up on him and glued a smile to his face. And it seemed to stick there, pretty well.

Looking back, Vlad always believed it was his stupid smile and stupid way of sitting that had drawn the boys over to the steps. He didn't notice them until the scuffing of shoes on pavement was basically under his nose. Vlad looked up, adding nervousness to the good-mood-smile glued to his face.

"Hey." A skinny kid, maybe Vlad's age or a couple years older, was holding something, or touching something near his pocket. Vlad didn't want to risk seeming rude, since Oh my god, they were actually talking to him and seemed nice, so he didn't investigate the object, or anything else about the boys around him. Just their faces. And their faces had smiles on them.

Vlad was a bit choked up on happiness, so he had to swallow before looking the same-age-or-older boy in the eyes. "He-ii," ugghh. He hadn't been able to choose between Hey and Hi, and ended up messing everything up. Now they were all going to walk away, or maybe laugh at him and then walk away-

"What're you doin' out here?" It was the same boy speaking, and Vlad blinked up at him, tapping his fingers against his knee-caps nervously. He wished the tapping had made some sort of sound to cover his noisy gulp.

"Jus' sitting."

"Really? 'Jus' sittin'?'" A smirk formed. Or maybe it had been there before, in the smile, but it was only then that Vlad saw it as a smirk.

"Mhm." The wild mane bobbed up and down emphatically as Vlad tried to minimize his verbal exchanges, given his bad-luck, always stuttering or doing something uncool. He could never be cool, even just the cool that made you fit in with the normal kids. And here he was, about to go into Junior High.

"Do you like sitting?" Red eyes widened as this new voice spoke. Vlad hunched his shoulders out of habit, not looking up at the boy responsible for the tone that was so familiar to him.

Vlad shrugged, but it seemed like the boys couldn't see it, since another one asked the same question. Vlad told his black sneakers that, "Sitting is sitting. I guess I like it. There's nothing to dislike about it…"

"Does your mama sit on her ass all day? Is that how it got so fat?"

Startled red eyes gaped at the preteen 'comedian' as he was high-fived by one of his friends. Both of his friends were sniggering as a means of congratulating the comedian's unquestionable genius.

Then one tried to leech off the joke, "Yo mama so fat, her ass can't fit through the front door."

The original jokester sneered at his friend, and then down at Vlad. "No. Yo mama's so damn fat… that she can't even fit through the garage door!"

Trills of hilarity erupted, and the whole alleyway was filled with the ruckus of young preteen voices. "Oh man, that was sweet." "Ohoo! Burn! You want some aloe vera for that burn? Huh? Huh- do ya? Freaky boy?" "Aha! No! He needs a better name than that."

Hiding his frown in his knees, Vlad's brow furrowed due to the angle as his eyes strained upwards to watch the boys' faces. "I already got a name," he mumbled into his knees.

Pale hands clenched as the boys chuckled and one pointed at him, for no reason apparently, since it was another boy who started antagonizing Vlad.

"What? Your name's not Freak? Man your parents must be stoopid. Cuz' obviously, you are a freak, and that's what you should be called."

"You're stupid." Vlad muttered back, against his will. The fat jokes having prickled him in an unpleasant way; his heart was flying in his chest, and he gulped again, causing the stutter. "Y-you can't even say stupid right."

"Oh?" The antagonizing boy pulled his hood over his head and leaned back on one leg, shoving his hands into the pouch of his sweatshirt. The other boys were oohing and ahhhing around them, in the partial (though disorganized) semicircle they'd formed in front of the steps. "Burn!" Someone said, laughing at his friend. He nudged the friend with his elbow.

Vlad, jolting up from his knees and hitting his back against the concrete step, looked on in amazement as the boy who didn't know how to pronounce stupid, kidney-punched Burn!-boy. Stoopid-boy laughed cruelly at his injured friend, a forced and fake laugh that grated against Vlad's spine as his wide eyes continued to people watch. "Who the f* do you think you are? Huh? I sure as f* didn't just get burned! Stoopid is a way of making fun of stupid. You should know that, Stoopid!" And with that, Stoopid-boy shoved Burn!-boy. And the others kept laughing, since they themselves were people watching.

But now that Burn!-boy was out of reach, Vlad, the real perpetrator, was the preferable target. With a rigid spine, Vlad took on the full blunt assault of ballooned anger and pseudo-pissed off-ness Stoopid-boy snarled down at him, "You know what? You're the one who's gonna be named Stoopid. Right here and now. You're Stoopid."

"No. My name's Vlad. Your name's Stoopid." Vlad couldn't react to the unexpected jab, as the boy dug his finger into Vlad's forehead, shoving his nail into the pale skin. In pain, Vlad slapped the hand away and scooted clumsily to the side, trying to get off the steps while also trying to keep his pants up, since they'd skidded against the concrete. However, the whole group of boys moved in a synchronized sweep to block his escape. Clearly, they'd had a lot of practice.

Gingerly touching his stinging forehead, Vlad froze, stiffened by the red that marked his finger. He looked up, eyes blank, not quite comprehending what was happening, or why this had to be happening to him, when all he'd done was people watch… or maybe he shouldn't have even looked at them… or he should've just gone inside to hide. Although, Joel had told him to go outside…

A breeze picked up, searing into Vlad's cut, and his tumultuous confusion condensed into centrifugal resentment. He glared at the boy who had hurt him, fueling his anger with Stoopid's unfounded haughtiness. "What?" Vlad spat, nearly hissing at the boy who paused in surprise. "Are you some kind of girl, or what? Nobody ever teach you how to cut your stupid nails? Or are you so stupid, that they gave up?"

Real merriment broke out from this, as one of the boys genuinely enjoyed Vlad's unexpected come-back. Stoopid's face soured, and he checked on his non-laughing friend to make sure all was not lost. Nope. The other guy wasn't even smiling. He'd be his new best friend after this, Stoopid thought, when he scowled down at Vlad. "What's your name?"

"It's Vlad."

"No, it's Freak."

"Stoopid can't even learn my name, after I've told him a billion times. My name's Vlad."

"Yo mama's stoopid. Yo mama wouldn't even date you. You so god damn ugly." Stoopid puffed up at the praise his yo mama-ing received, and he crossed his arms triumphantly.

Vlad, however, was giving him a look like the kid couldn't possibly get any dumber. He was even shaking his head. "Wow. Your mom's your girlfriend? That's really gross."

Outright taunting nearly swallowed up Stoopid, as his friends slapped him on the back, an especially hard slap coming from Burn!-boy, who took advantage of his friend's vulnerability. Someone even pulled back his hood so that his capacity to intimidate was halved. Growling and losing control of his pitch as it was hijacked by rage and puberty, Stoopid squeaked, "No," and then shouted, "I was talking about your mama-!"

"Huh? What? You were talking from experience?" Vlad was smiling, unable to feel it, his face numb while his mind was equally disengaged as his mouth worked by itself. "You know, just because you kiss her, that doesn't make her your girlfriend. I mean, what would happen if you kissed your dad? Which one of you would wear the dress?"

A shove went unreturned by Vlad, who still sat on the steps, trying his hardest to look smug and composed, while he couldn't even listen to his own thoughts, his heart was so wild. His mind flailed within a typhoon. Vlad licked his lips about every five seconds, but none of the boys had picked up on this. Stoopid shoved Vlad again, making him fall on his side, and Vlad's elbow slammed into the step above him when he tried to catch himself. When this also failed to incite a response, anything beyond a minor wince of pain, Stoopid cussed at Vlad. His colorful array of same words just said louder and louder made its way into the entrance of the building. And at that time bodies were just beginning to emerge from the door the giant had closed; something hadn't worked out during the brief meeting, so the general mood was already cloudy. Joel heard the language, and his brow scrunched as he recalled that Vlad was supposed to be outside. Which was where all the rumpus was coming from. The giant glanced at the long black ponytail as a figure passed him and proceeded to the door.

It appeared as though Stoopid and another boy had grabbed Vlad's sweatshirt as the door was opening, and together they heaved Vlad onto the asphalt while Walter looked on. Walter did not speak. He did not move. Joel peered over him to see into the alley. As soon as the one-sided fight was spotted, the crown of Walter's head received a disapproving frown, and the giant gently bypassed the seemingly indifferent uncle to hobble down the steps, gripping his bad leg with a strained hand, wincing all the way down.

Tangled up in his inside-out sweatshirt, Vlad's snared head and arms flapped futilely, like trout in a fishing-net. The boys used the sweatshirt to pull him in one direction and then another, carousing with mean, boyish hilarity. One boy, laughing, dragged him across the narrow back alley, towards a group of metal garbage pails.

Joel scowled up from his leg – moody due to pain – just in time to see a boy kick over a heavy garbage can, so that it spilled out next to, and onto, the incapacitated Vlad. Joel identified Vlad as the boy on the ground, knotted up in his clothes. Since they had let go of the red-eyed freak to avoid the smelly garbage, Vlad was able to tug his way out of his sweatshirt. Unfortunately, this left his pale, blue-veined arms exposed beneath the inadequate sleeves of the dark grey T-shirt he was wearing. The shirt was drenched in sweat. Anxious and self-conscious, Vlad gnawed his lip until it throbbed, and he clutched his sweatshirt close while the boys laughed at him, pointed at him, and told him he had a yogurt lid stuck to his ugly, stoopid hair.

Vlad's back was to the door and he'd yet to notice their audience, so he flinched and was startled by the giant hand that clapped onto his shoulder. But the big red eyes looked up at this savior with all the gratitude Vlad could squeeze past his overbearing shame. A pale hand hastily patted out the yogurt lid, and once it was peeled off, Vlad dithered, not sure if throwing it on the ground would be considered littering. And he didn't like littering, and his uncle didn't like littering, and he thought Joel probably thought littering was a bad thing too. So he held on to it, tucking his sweatshirt under his left arm, until he realized that, with Joel here, he had time to slip it on. His heart pittered madly with his anxiety driven thoughts.

Shoving his head through the cloth, Vlad squinted back at the group of hesitant boys while maneuvering his arms through the sleeves. His primary focus became patting the dirt off his back. Ugh, it was even on the back of his T-shirt. He could feel the grains, like sand, and smaller particles felt like really thick dust. Agh, it's so stupid, Vlad chewed his lip and pulled on his clothes miserably. I'm all dirty. Uncle won't like this at all. Glancing back only because he dreaded what his uncle would think of this situation, not actually suspecting his presence, Vlad held the yogurt lid tightly in his hands, and stared fearfully back at his uncle's indecipherable expression. The hard blue eyes; he could never tell if it was anger or disinterest, or even if this was just his uncle's default. Vlad's eyes and face burned with renewed shame, and he had to look away. He turned to the boys, as though there might be some way to remedy the situation.

Another adult, followed by a companion, emerged from the door as Walter descended the steps. The men assessed the reason for the delay, and saw Vlad and Joel before spotting the delinquent posy. "Oh!" one man laughed to his partner, "I guess Joel's nephew got into a fight. The meeting didn't even last ten minutes!"

The other man chortled, though his eyes were calm, assessing, as he waited to see what would happen next. "He's so puny compared to Jake. And timid."

Walter, at the bottom of the steps, and within listening distance, did not react. He was accustomed to the misunderstanding. It was simpler this way. And Walter, at times, considered himself to be a rather simple man, of simple tastes and needs. Despite his profession, and his hobbies, allies, reluctant allies, and all the people who wanted to kill him, or dissect him; he was a simple man. And he simply couldn't be bothered to correct them.

So deep blue eyes were fixed on "Joel's Nephew" as Walter watched the back of the dirty black sweatshirt and Vlad stood before the triad of hooligans.

Vlad's heart thudded and his hands became clammy. They quivered like his lips when he tried to mouth possible retorts, something to save face, but not something immature. The problem was that his audience and his adversaries were of differing tastes. Something immature would be more effective and better received by Vlad's adversaries, but the adults, specifically Vlad's uncle, would appreciate an immature retort much less. And something sophisticated or witty was beyond him, while something factual and obvious would be disregarded and taunted by the boys, while the adults would probably accept it better, it being at the very least somewhat rational.

So the fight came to a standstill. The boys in the posy stood beside the toppled garbage can. Vlad stood in the shadow of the building, as the evening bloodied the sky and pulled shadows like morticians' sheets across the alley. Vlad would have remained standing there beside the giant until the end of time. If not for the obscenity that Stoopid uttered, that twisted expressions, formed distaste in the men's faces, and exploded Vlad's own timidity with total amazement, bewilderment, and then rage…

The boys howled at the (un)original Yo Mamma joke of the century. Pausing, they began to laugh twice as hard when skinny, wimpy-looking Vlad strode towards them, his feet swift, his head low, his eyes on fire. Stoopid sneered at Vlad when this ugly little freak gripped his shirt and glared up at him, jerking Stoopid roughly. Stoopid positively giggled at the pale, grotesque expression on Vlad's face, "What? You telling me yo mamma ain't a whore?" Nothing registered in Vlad's features. He did not know what a whore was. But anyone would have felt offended by the graphic scene that had involved Vlad's mother and many, many men, which Stoopid expanded upon after his last insult. "-and she'll swallow, all of it."

Stoopid gasped something that sounded like a wrenched-hiccup. His body felt like it had been hit by a lead missile, torn so abruptly and completely from the ground, and he was slammed, face first, into the side of the toppled trashcan. He didn't even twitch as his friends stared down at his body, and the dented trashcan.

A boy grabbed the trashcan lid from the pile of spilled garbage, his muscles knowing how to shift into a ready assault while his friend was still too stunned to register what was happening. Crimson eyes flicked to the boy and Vlad's body revolved to face him, crouched to meet the blow of the metal lid. The boy swung it down into Vlad's shoulder. Immediately, Vlad's hands closed like a vice – he gripped the weapon wielding arm, already crushing a whimper of pain from the boy before he swung him to the side, as though he were flinging a rat across the alley by its tail. His horrendous strength, crammed into such a deceptive frame, had the men blank, mute, and three of them staring. Walter's eyes had widened, briefly. He registered the familiar strength, Vlad's strength - his brother's. Vladimir had the temper and the brutish power. Unpleasant memories arose, fleetingly, and Walter's shoe ground into the asphalt with agitated reluctance.

Walter was well acquainted with the danger this temper presented, especially when paired with Vlad's surges of raw, physical might. He stepped forward, to prevent Vladimir from bashing the other children to pieces. It was then that Vladimir heaved the pre-teen body against the wooden fence (flung again like a rat) that separated them from the neighboring building, and a frightened thirteen year-old lifted up a baggy sweatshirt and pulled a gun from the crotch of his pants.

Silence fell, as though a shot had been fired. There was no blast, but the thirteen year-old grew cold, sweating, shaking now with true horror, and, swallowing, looked back at the adults. His lips parted as his breath spasmed through his diaphragm, he could hear himself panting, a whimper behind his breaths as he turned the gun instinctively, unwillingly, towards the weapons which faced him. His face pleaded, while the two men at the top of the stairs were stolid, and unhesitating. The gun moved between targets, even Joel was considered for an instant.

Joel cringed at the slicing breeze, shaking his head. He motioned, beseechingly for the kid to lower his goddamn gun. Walter stood behind Vlad, in the line of fire. Where the gun had initially been pointed, and now, intermittently, returned, and lingered as the boy met the man's cool, soul-bearing eyes.

The door opened suddenly behind the two men who were prepared to shoot the boy on Walter's command, or at their own discretion. One man looked back at the newcomers, while the other kept both eyes on the trouble below, their actions harmonized after a decade long partnership. A tall man with snowy hair blinked, and hesitated to make any assumptions as he saw the two men. The guns weren't directed at him. The old man saw the collection of standing, breathing bodies in the alley, the Angel of Death blocking his view of Vlad. It appeared as though the man's idiot grandson was biting off something that was going to tear him into bloody hunks and strew him about the filthy street. The image churned in the grandfather's guts.

Harsh Russian boomed into the alley, and the boy with the gun jolted and shrunk a few feet away. At least now his gun was pointed at the ground; the grandfather cursed as men inside watched over his shoulder. He was mortified by the whole situation. "I'll let them kill you. I give them permission to kill you. You fool. What do you think you are doing? Huh? … What? Nicolai, give me that gun so I can beat your father upside the head with it! … NOW! You fool! Now!" Hurry, otrod'ye!

Scurrying, head low and trembling with receding adrenaline, the grandson ran in an exaggerated arch around Walter, his friend scurrying behind him, and then the grandson danced anxiously at the bottom of the stairs while he waited for the two men to walk by. Slowly the men slid their guns into their holsters, tracked by the delinquent boys' gaping eyes. One man glanced in the boys' direction, cold, perhaps a little annoyed, but overall his look said Nicolai wasn't worth his grandfather's efforts. Hanging his head, Nicolai stumbled up the steps, tripping twice.

When he handed the gun over, a large, heavy palm landed against his face. He held his cheek gratefully, and nodded his head as he apologized, again, and again. He did not cry.

"Now," the grandfather grabbed him roughly and jerked him towards the Angel of Death, "now you apologize to them-"

But the group at the top of the stairs went quiet, as the grandfather noticed Vlad for the first time. His grandson's dishonored companion had returned to engage Vlad once more, desperate, delirious with fear and shame – he had to do something about the freak, or else this loss reflected on much more than a child's skirmish (or so he thought). His mind discarded reason for a time, effortlessly operating without it. He thought of his father's work, of his aims and plans. With this great man in attendance, and not understanding what had changed – attributing all of the trouble to the gun, and only the gun – the boy returned to the battle to pick up his dignity, which had been hurled into the fence like a girl's Barbie doll. Vlad took his bait, and swallowed it, and strode up the nearly tangible fishing line. The boy shifted back, and back, additional steps of retreat as he glared doubtfully, confusedly at his eager prey. He finally bit his lip and put up his fists, ready to make things right.

The boy's mouth felt dry as he forced a laugh, "You asshole!" He shuffled back, grimacing as he tried to smirk, "You come over here and fight me! I'll f* you up! I'll teach you a real lesson!"

All this goading sounded hollow and idiotic to the boy, but Vlad was coming. Time slowed and sped and slowed, but the increasingly demonic thing was coming, and that was what he had wanted. Then, the boy began to second guess his plan. He choked, realizing Vlad was his own height, not shorter than him by even a centimeter, no. The only sure (and stupid) advantage he'd thought he'd had, disappeared. He gulped, and 'reason' slugged him in the stomach, "You f-f-f*cker."

The boy jumped back when Vlad lunged at him, silent and creepily unyielding in his advance, swerving to follow the retreating body. The boy kicked Vlad in the knee, which Vlad seemed not to have expected. As Vlad tried to regain his footing and took a moment to lock eyes with the boy again, a fist buried itself in his face. But Vlad didn't budge. He stood there like a man three times his size, and the blood-red eyes stared into the boy's face as the fist pulled back gradually, spooked by Vlad's utter indifference. He hadn't even blinked. Whatthe hell was wrong with him?

Blood began to run over Vlad's mouth, but he didn't react to it. Because he didn't feel it. He had no thoughts. He couldn't think. And he grabbed the preteen and heaved him into the pile of garbage the boy's friend had spilled earlier.

An old desk phone that had been thrown out came into contact with the boy's hand; he picked it up and swung it at Vlad like some ineffective mace that split apart on impact. Vlad put his arm up and received another blow from what remained of the old phone, keeping eye contact with his target. Never letting him go.

Vlad punched the boy, hard, solidly across the face, making him taste blood. The boy tackled Vlad, using his legs to trip up Vlad's feet so that they fell, rolling, grappling across the smelly, trash littered asphalt. The boy found the trashcan lid and pounded it into Vlad's skull, until Vlad had had enough of that. Vlad grabbed the boy's shirt, then yanked him forward so that he fell into a head butt that smashed his nose.

Vlad picked him up. And threw him down.

He picked him up, and threw him.

Picked him up, and threw him.

…

Down.

Into the garbage, each time scattering more debris, spreading it over more of the alleyway. The boy would try to get to his feet, and Vlad would pull him off balance, step forward, and use this momentum to throw him down again. Continuing until the boy thrust his head into Vlad's stomach and wrestled him to the ground. The boy was on top of him, flailing with weak fists, gasping for breath and drenched in sweat. And when he gasped again, deeper, to satisfy his starved lungs, he bent forward to resume- Vlad jabbed his elbow up, and something in the face above, crunched.

Both of them were bleeding, grimy messes. A guttural groan gurgled over the silent alley like vomit, and the boy rolled away, sputtering as, alarmingly, blood clogged his throat, and he tasted the vile, nauseating heat of it. Slick against his tongue. Vlad sat up from the debris, and watched the boy who cupped his face and remained with his head down on the asphalt, on his knees, rocking spasmodically, blood pouring from his nose and from his mouth. He coughed and choked on it, gagging and frightened by the quantity and its flowing, unending exodus. Tears came hot, but unfelt, for all the hot blood that wet his face.

A gash ran deep across his forehead.

Vlad cooled back into coherency, dislocated from his current state of being. He rubbed his sleeve over his wet mouth and looked about for his uncle, who he found and stared at stupidly. Disoriented and suddenly exhausted and a tad hungry, for Vlad reality was a foreign plain which his senses probed tentatively. For what had just happened… What had happened? Nothing had happened, from what he could tell. And he would not look at the bleeding boy, or the unconscious body by the trashcan. No need to. No desire to.

With a hollow cheerful urge, Vlad felt like he wanted to go home, so he went to his uncle, and waited. Obediently, docile once more. He hoped they would leave as soon as possible, and that he could eat something good for dinner. Maybe go out to eat with Jake, so he could have some meat. Home was a meat-free zone. No meat there, no. None at all. And homework, he had some of that to do, right? Yeah. But he didn't like homework, so he diverted to other thoughts, the torrent swirling his mind into a thrashing and false apathy.

Walter was speaking, so Vlad looked up, but realized, without surprise, that his uncle was talking to Joel – of course he wasn't talking to Vlad, nope, no. It was to Joel, of course, of course it was him, Uncle's friend… Uncle something- he said- erm, yes?- and so, and so Vlad listened, as though pressing his ear, trembling, against a wall, searching and grasping at a muffled idea of what lay beyond his sudden isolation. He felt lonely. He didn't know why.

Walter muttered, "We should give every idiot a gun."

Puzzled, Joel chewed the statement over, "So they can kill each other?" He hadn't been confident in the guess, so when Walter failed to agree, he shrugged.

"You saw where he keeps his gun."

Joel didn't appear to remember. So Walter began to walk. They left the scene as though the battle between children had not occurred. It communicated to the relieved grandfather, that this fight was irrelevant to the groups' relations and dealings – as though taking it seriously would have been ridiculous, absolute nonsense.

Walter explained his reasoning, "The boy keeps it down the front of his trousers. Stupidity wouldn't be able to procreate half as successfully, if every idiot was given a gun and not told how to switch on the safety."

Joel's heavy, resounding laugh boomed into the fast approaching night. Vlad kept up with them quietly, while the two men who had directed their guns at a child led the way out of the alley.

*~*~::..+..::~*~*

The men by the door watched as the Angel of Death, and those who had come with him, disappeared beyond the alley. A lot more could have happened. …A lot more. These thoughts were the Russian's, his only thoughts, all he could manage, after retrieving his grandson. And after watching the violent spectacle of the red-eyed child tossing around his grandson's playmate. Tearing him from the ground, deaf to the pleading voice, the admittance of defeat, "I give! I give! Stop- stop you win! F*. You win!" And then the poor boy would be shoved or thrown into the asphalt, only to be caught again, shrieking.

Now the frightened and battered boy remained curled over his knees amongst the spilled garbage, blood smeared across his brow, implied blood coming from his nose and/or mouth beneath cupped hands. The available men went to lend the bleeding boy some aid momentarily; others went to the groggy boy who was waking up on the dented trashcan; the Russian assessed his shaken grandson. He gripped the boy's shoulder, making him jolt and gape up at him with nauseous apprehension. "Nicolai. Who was the boy you were fighting?"

"I-" Nick shivered and looked over at Huxley, stupidly hearty and loyal Jim Huxley, whom he could barely recognize amidst the strewn garbage and smeared blood. After a pause, Nick blinked and swallowed, mentally compiling some functional scraps of thought. He looked up and away from his grandfather anxiously, and mumbled, "I don't know, Sir. We j-just kinda c-came across him, and…" Nick's toes curled and his chin dug into his chest, as his shame tightened his nerves. Bile burned his nose, and he swallowed again. "I'm sorry."

A man called back from the boy he was attending to, "I think- I heard that he was Joel Savage's nephew. A sister's son." He mimed the gigantic body with his hands, as though the Russian didn't know who Joel Savage was.

Cringing subtly, the man squeezed his grandson's shoulder, gave him a narrow stare, and then turned back into the building.

*~*~::..+..::~*~*

Vlad was excited in a way that makes you nauseous and spoils the fun before it gets started. Because you start doubting the fun to be had, and it's that doubt and your longing for that prospective fun that stretches your insides and makes you want to vomit rainbows.

Luckily his uncle was here today. He usually wasn't home in the morning, but today Uncle was exactly where Vlad needed him to be. Walter was reading a newspaper and sipping black tea. Vlad stepped up to him shyly, acting like a child half his age. So the adult looked away from his newspaper to make the boy's job easier.

Vlad wet his lips. "Uncle?" There was a pause, and Vlad fidgeted from side to side, looking at his feet. "Um, today I have school."

Another pause.

"I'm aware of that."

This made Vlad look up and smile. But soon enough he was smiling at the floor bashfully, rolling his ankle. "Um- I don't really know where the school is."

Walter leaned into his hand, elbow on the table, as he watched the nervous child mumble. "Did it sprout wings and fly away?"

Vlad gave him a laughably stupid expression.

Walter brushed back loose strands of hair and then returned to his newspaper. But he was folding it. While his uncle cleared the table, Vlad positively glowed with delight. The boy had a spring in his step as he followed his uncle about the house. Though the man had been fine with letting his nephew prance his way to school without his lunch, without even his backpack, when Vlad followed him out the front door, Walter had enough mercy in his heart to give the child the necessary reminder. Then they set off, as though going on a casual stroll.

Nothing could have made the boy prouder.

*~*~::..+..::~*~*

Nick thought of his father as he scowled angrily at an empty chair, Huxley and Ben sitting on their desks while he leaned against his own. His fingers tapped restlessly, and he looked from one boy to another, chewing his lip. "I hate school."

The boys agreed, glancing menacingly about the room. Most of the faces were unfamiliar. They were new to the middle school, but fortunately they were acquainted with some eighth graders who would show them 'the ropes' at lunch. For now, they chatted while they sized up the guys and searched for the best looking girls. No one stood out, male or female.

…How disappointing.

Nick's cousin, stupid Yakov, had promised that the school would be overflowing with drop-dead gorgeous girls. Half of the girls here didn't even have boobs (95% of them were twelve, but he didn't take age into account). And the one who had something he could stare at was dressed like a flippin' five year-old. Nothing in this world could make Hello Kitty sexy.

Names were taped to the desks, and it was by Lady Luck's favor alone that the trio had been allowed to stick together. Some laughter drew their attention, and they watched, growing half amused as some delinquent wannabes (by the looks of it) were already picking on some fool who couldn't even defend his own desk from accumulating a pile of junk: papers, Doritos bags, wrappers, etc. A skinny kid with expensive looking glasses was staring at his bullies, and the trio mocked the boy's spinelessness until he walked over to his own clean desk and sat down.

The trio quieted for a moment, and then stepped over to their unfortunate neighbor's desk to check out the commotion. Nick jerked his chin in greeting as the two boys noticed them, "Sup."

The boys nodded approvingly at the chin jerk. It had been sufficiently cool.

Nick glanced at the desk, and then kicked one of its legs with his sneaker. "What's all this crap?"

The boys smiled in unison. One answered, "Oh, you know. A loser from our old school. We saw his name on the desk, and thought, oh- Jesus Christ, him again?"

The other boy laughed, "We just got through with him, but now we've got another two years of the winey little worm." Nick sniffed at the term, listening without much of an expression. "He's just so creepy and gross and annoying. SUPER creepy, I mean. Like- Nobody can get along with him. He's like retarded or something –but, but not actually retarded. If I knew what to call it, I wouldn't use the word retarded," the boy smiled sheepishly, having caught himself in time. "He's just… annoyingly dumb, and it sucks to have to do group work with him."

"I got a friggen F because of him. No joke. A real F – my dad went ballistic! He took my PS2 away for a month! And I'd just bought a new game with two months' worth of allowance! You know how much that sucks? I friggen' hate this guy."

The trio cracked their necks or slouched casually, not quite able to gage what sort of guys they were dealing with. Both of the boys looked like they'd never had a real, bloody fight in their lives. They might be the type to have a scuffle to raise their status in school, to claim they'd been in a fight, but nothing more. None of their dads were professional criminals.

The trio went back to their own desks, having lost interest. But they looked up when they heard laughter break out from the two boys. One pointed in the direction of the desk, and Nick, Huxley, and Ben noticed the uncombed, somewhat messy-looking boy in a generic black sweatshirt and dark jeans staring at the pile of junk. They couldn't see his face, but something about him snagged their thoughts, draining them for a moment, roughening their skin with a chill – their unconscious minds, their animal instinct knew something they weren't quite picking up on. Then the boy noticed their stares and looked at them.

His crimson eyes, grotesquely pale skin, and recognizably sharp features snuffed the life right out of the trio.

Their hearts were dead for a period of 5 seconds, while Vlad watched them, equally stunned. Vlad was the first to look away; embarrassed not only by his incomplete memories of their last meeting, but of the humiliating circumstances he was currently dealing with. He started gathering up the trash, but hesitated when he found a banana peel.

Someone else peeled it off his desk for him, and with big eyes, Vlad met Nick's nervous frown. Neither breathed for a moment.

Vlad swallowed, but the boys didn't notice. To them, this was freaken Hannibal Lector, Satan/Lucifer, Death incarnate, and they just wanted to be on his good side, so when he went on his killing spree and swamped the school with gore and floating organs, they would be spared… in theory. "Thanks," Vlad nearly whispered, but then he smiled. It was a nervous smile, similar to Nick's nervous frown.

The smile confused the trio, unable to find it exactly terrifying. Nick's friends began to help clear off the desk, and then Huxley left to get a paper towel. The boys responsible for the mess observed in confused silence as these 'legit' delinquents somehow thought they needed to clean off a loser's desk. Their opinions of Nick, Ben and Huxley plummeted by the millisecond.

Nick watched Vlad pick up the last of the empty bags of chips, and held out a trash bin so he could throw it away. Nick was still holding the bin when he lost track of what he was doing. He nodded at Vlad unconsciously and leaned forward to re-read the nametag that had just surfaced from the garbage.

VLADIMIR DRACULA.

Not SAVAGE, like he'd been told… or had heard others tell his grandfather. Freckled, blue-eyed Ben snuffled behind him and then nudged Nick, to snap him out of his daze. Huxley threw a thumb back at his desk, avoiding Vlad as he tried to communicate his searing desire to get away from this homicidal maniac who'd given him a concussion four months ago. So Nick returned to his desk, thinking too heavily to look back or hear Vlad's grateful, yet awkward, "Thanks- Thanks a lot."

Nick said nothing when he sat down, and wasn't asked to say much for a while as class started, and the teacher took command.

…

"Hey," one of the boys who had messed up Vlad's desk caught the delinquent trio's attention at lunch, while the trio had been on their way to meet up with their 8th grade 'buds.'

"Yeah?" Nick squinted at the cool stares. There were about six kids gathered, an 'ugly' (twelve year-old) girl or two (hey look – Hello Kitty-girl, she was at least a 7 [out of 10]), and the rest were guys. They'd probably all gone to the same school, or something. They looked like a tight little gang.

The same boy spoke, shaking his head, "Why the hell did you help the Freak?" He said "freak" like it was a name. And he said "hell" like he was the toughest badass Nick had ever come up against. It was pathetic, but unavoidably annoying at the same time.

Nick's brow furrowed. Ben clucked his tongue before speaking, "What's your guys' deal? I mean," Ben juggled for words with his empty hands. "Whhhat, exaaaactly… How come you're able to just do that sort of shit to him?"

There was no comprehension in their faces. A chubby boy sniggered, however, and sauntered over, though he kept some distance. In an exaggerated way, he let the trio now he was assessing their strength and finding them inadequate. Like he knew anything about… anything, Nick thought.

The chubby boy snorted, "You got a problem with it? You want to be his friend or something? You three can be his friends, that's not any of our business – but I think even you'll get sick of him after a while."

Huxley snorted, out of anger, "The hell! You know he could beat the Jesus right out of you?"

…

Needless to say, they were driven off by a hyena-like barrage of jeers and ridicule.

The trio scowled, soured, and then grew resentful as the humor turned into outright mockery and contempt. They decided to go meet up with their 8th grade friends before coming back to put the group in their place… once they'd gotten reinforcements… maybe.

There was a cinderblock retaining wall that rose from two to fifteen feet along the descending path to the track and field. Rather than take the path, the trio strolled beneath the shade of the trees, painfully delinquent-like, with hands shoved into their sweatshirts and their hoods up in the residual summer heat. Their buddies were gathered together, 'chilling' at the edge of the retaining wall's fifteen foot drop, lookin' pretty cool – in the trio's opinion. One boy was pelting a blue porta potty with small rocks. Others were watching him or talking. When the trio, specifically Nick, was noticed, they were welcomed and slapped/punched affectionately on the back. Nick's cousin was there, and he started to explain what they usually did before, during, and after school to amuse themselves. And the cousin mentioned where they could get cigarettes from a liquor store that was only a fifteen minute walk from the school. "They don't care. As long as you have money. The guy's real cool about it."

Then the trio spotted a tall, lean girl who could have passed for seventeen, and their bad-boy hearts melted into timid, self-conscious puddles at their feet. When she smirked at them through her piercings and bright red fringe of side-bangs, smiling in a severe, nearly hostile way, and offered them some Marlboros, they of course had to take them. And let her light them, pinched between their anxious lips.

*~*~::..+..::~*~*

They learned very quickly that Satan – otherwise known as Vlad – was not the domineering or sinister Hannibal they had been expecting. Even Huxley lost his fear of Vlad, though plenty of apprehension remained. It was enough to limit their retaliation, but that led to a prolonged system of unpredictable slighting remarks, teasing, then pelting Vlad with bits of paper. It led up to one moment when they took Vlad's backpack and emptied it out on the wet parking lot asphalt.

Vlad scrambled to gather up his loose papers, the bag itself which had been thrown at him, and his books. Doing so, however, revealed something the boys had not been expecting. Huxley snapped up the black leather wallet and, looking it over, whistled in surprise, "I think it's real leather." He laughed, still amazed by the find, not looking at Vlad. The others were just as engrossed, and waited for Huxley to check the contents.

His uncle had given him fifty dollars for groceries. He now had somewhere around thirty-seven dollars. But Vlad was so astounded by what was happening, he could not accept the fact that he might actually get 'robbed.' No one had ever wanted something that belonged to him before, since his possessions were infected with his germs, or whatever it was the kids claimed – it had been infected with 'Vlad.' But here was something that retained value, despite the fact that it had come in contact with him.

Vlad protested, "That's not even mine. It's my uncle's. It's to buy food, or…" His voice died down and then stopped as he received three hard, unimpressed stares. Then the boys cheerfully laughed about their find, and discussed what to do with it, as the wallet was nearly tossed at Vlad. But then one claimed that he wanted it, since it seemed to be made of some "quality leather." And then they left Vlad on the wet asphalt.

When questioned by his uncle about why he'd let this happen, rather than protect his belongings, Vlad could offer no explanation. Vlad expected to be punished, but he received nothing. No further remark. And in the morning, his uncle walked him to school.

A complaint was left with the principal, and the attendants were told to look out for bullying. Classes had out of place reminders by teachers that bullying is wrong, and should be reported. Some irrelevant reports were made, none of which pertained to Vlad. So Vlad didn't benefit much from the heightened 'security.' But as Vlad remained non-combative, the delinquents' wounded prides mended and they no longer sought him out so doggedly. A month into the school year, Vlad's name reached the upper ranks of the middle school's delinquents. And finally, he was… almost recognized.

"Oh! Red-eyed kid?" That's all the cigarette-smoking 8th grade boy had heard, and he now sprinted, eagerly, over to Nick, Nick's older cousin (Yakov), and two other boys he didn't really know that well. "Is he, like, uh- about my height?" Grinning, the 8th grader measured out the red-eyed kid in comparison to his own height. Watching their blank stares, his smile slowly grew stale as he spoke with less and less enthusiasm. "Really, really pale white? A lot of black hair? …Kinda quiet? Um… am I thinking about someone else? …Guys?"

Cousin Yakov pretended to be engrossed in watching a boy pelt a blue porta potty with small rocks (Jesus, the kid really had it in for that porta potty). But then he shrugged, and slowly, as casually as he could, turned back to his 8th grade classmate. "Maybe. How do you know him?"

"Oh," the 8th grader brightened, beaming as he shoved his hands into his sweatshirt pocket, wearing his hood up like a lot of the other boys, and the one girl, who occupied the tree-obscured area at the edge of the retaining wall. It was 76 degrees outside - once again too warm for the season, and once again too warm to have hoods on. "My cousin knows him," the 8th grader went on to remind everyone, for the umpteenth time, that his brother was a bigshot in high school, making a thousand dollars a week selling… stuff.

Um. People were really, freakin' scared of this guy's cousin. So… it sure as hell didn't make any sense that the no-longer-intimidating, 7th grade freak was friends with a 17 year old.

Yakov shrugged, yawning into his hand, "Nah, prob' not him." He yawned again, and looked at his younger cousin.

"Oh," the 8th grader deflated, and then tapped his cigarette dully. He took a puff, and wandered towards the edge of the retaining wall to sit next to the red-haired girl. He gave her a cigarette, and then a light.

Nick, his friends, and his cousin watched the 8th grader and the girl smoke, until they noticed an adult was wandering through the trees towards them.

*~*~::..+..::~*~*

Jake and his friends sometimes had parties at their little hang-out. Vlad would stick around, not drinking, not even the Sprite, though he was accustomed to seeing the beer cans, accustomed to leaving early as the teenagers got stupid-drunk (and started doing mischievous things to other people's property).

Vlad sat on a stool as Jake leaned against the wall and listened and nodded at someone's conversation. Vlad was listening, but didn't know the people who were being named, or exactly what the speaker was complaining about. The speaker said some name, and, suddenly, everyone but Vlad booed together.

Startled by the loud outburst, Vlad was still distracted by a high pitched voice that had joined an instant behind most of the others. There were girls here. That wasn't unusual, when there was beer (girls like free beer). Vlad leaned to the side to see who was entering the room, but passing bodies blocked his view, and then the newcomer sat down between two bigger teenage boys on the couch.

Hesitantly, and self-consciously, Vlad slipped quietly off the stool and stepped to the side, enough to spot the verythin and very tall girl with shoulder length hair. He recognized the dyed hair, and then the ox-like nose ring, eyebrow ring, matching lip ring, triple-pierced ears… though, Vlad blinked, the exposed mid-drift, with the fake red ruby in a belly-button ring was new. But Vlad had encountered her before. She had flicked cigarette ash on his head, and then brushed dirt and twigs on him, when he'd stood against the retaining wall at the track and field, cornered by the three (most aggressive) bullies in his class. She wasn't in his class, but someone had just handed her a beer, and one of the teenage guys had just slung his arm around her.

She really didn't look out of place, though she and Vlad were the only middle schoolers in attendance. The girl was drinking her beer as Vlad silently back peddled to the stool. Once perched on it, his heart hollow and pittering with apprehension, Vlad swallowed and leaned over towards Jake.

"Hey, uh Jack-bean." He had to say it twice, since his first attempt had been drowned by a sudden wave of laughter. Jake gradually stopped laughing, but he was still smiling.

"Yeah, what's up?" Jake sipped his beer, not looking at Vlad as he continued to attend to the other conversation.

"A girl from my school is here."

"Mhm," he swallowed, nodding towards the teenager who was still speaking from a cushy armchair, with other teens sitting on the back or arms of the chair. "That's cool. Good for you, now you'll have someone to talk to."

Vlad looked over at the couch, and could only see the guy who had his arm around the girl. "No. I think she's gonna be too busy with her boyfriend."

"Aw," Jake was still attending to the conversation. But then a few things clicked in his brain, and he looked at Vlad, all his humor and all signs of a nice 'buzz' leaving his face. "Wait." He paused, straightened, and stepped away from the wall, scanning the room before looking to Vlad again. "Where is she?"

Vlad pointed to the couch, "Behind him – I forgot his name."

Jake stealthily (for a giant) moved to the center of the room, as though he were going to the table for another beer. But then he spotted the lanky red-head next to Glasses (named thus, because he'd been the only one in their group with glasses for a while, and was prone to breaking them). He saw the beer in her hand, and, pointing to it, asked Glasses, "How old is she?"

'She' glared at Jake immediately, while Glasses slowly noticed Jake. "Huh? Oh! She's alright. She's with me."

Jake didn't take that for an answer. "Someone said she's in middle school." Those on the couch, or on the arms of the couch, or those who had been watching Jake, looked at the girl and at her boyfriend who was shaking his head.

"Yeah," he held his hand out, as though someone was trying to interrupt him. "Yeah, yeah- she is. But she had a shitty 5th grade teacher who held her back. So she'll be turning 15, like, next month." He pointed from the girl to himself hastily, "So we're only just over a year apart. I turned 16 last month. She should've been a freshman this year."

Glasses lost his smile as Jake frowned harder. Jake winced, looked at the others without seeing them, and then locked eyes with Glasses. "We don't give beer to anyone under fifteen. We've got soda-"

"Oh, f* this sh*t! You serious?" The girl's shrieking silenced the room as others turned about, excited to witness some kind of fight or drama. Some teens outright laughed as they saw who the girl was screaming at, and then laughed at the completely terrified expression on Glasses' stricken face.

Her jerking hands swung bangles and bracelets and anything else that hung from her wrists, making a metallic and bead- or chain-like rattle. "You shut the f* up," her hand jabbed in Jake's direction as his face creased. "Shut the f* up, and mind your own goddamn business."

"It's a rule we have around here-"

"I don't care!" The high pitched voice sliced through Jake's calm tone. "I don't give a f* about your rules! What? You think just because you're such a big b*stard that people have to listen to you? Are you sh*tting me? Go take your big a** somewhere-"

There was a piercing scream, as though Jake had stabbed the girl – though, all he'd done was snatch a beer from her hand. She shrieked, "Who the f* do you think you are-?"

"I'm the guy who bought the beer," Jake stared back at the girl's angry glower as she snarled at him.

Her feet stomped the worn carpet, as she glared and scowled and was about to scream again. But her boyfriend tried to interfere. He had to quickly withdraw as her long fingernails came uncomfortable close to his eyes. She shrieked some more, "The f* is your problem, dude? I was having a good time! You are an A**-HOLE." She pronounced the words distinctly, and then was silent as she waited for Jake to give two shits about her tantrum.

After emitting some scream-like, elephant-like sounds, keeping her jaws clenched as her nails dug into the couch, rather than get up and leave, the girl got up in Jake's face (not even reaching his shoulder). "Okay. Okay!" She waved her hands, as she seemed to gain some kind of lucidity. "Who told you I was in middle school? Who here could have even KNOWN that?" Her rising screech grated against Jake's ears, and he scowled back at her, diluting his expression first (since he was a big, scary eighteen year old and she was just a 'little kid').

"Someone who goes to your school."

More screeching – some murmuring picked up as people tapped at their pained ears. "Who? WHO the F*-!" As she looked about, stepped about, wildly, her eyes fell upon Vlad. Vlad was hunched, his hands knotted over his chest as he wrung them out nervously. When he saw that he'd been spotted, his eyes grew, and a shudder of dread shook his lungs.

"YOU! YOU?" She stepped towards him, then hung back, too astounded by his sudden materialization to do much more. Her ringed finger jabbed at Vlad from a distance, as the bracelets rattled, "THE FREAK? WHY'RE YOU HERE-?" A large hand wrapped around her mouth. Immediately, muffled screeches broke through the hand and the girl shoved at the much larger unknown-boy ineffectually.

The random teenage boy growled at her, "Shut up and leave. You're loud. You're rude. You're gonna get the cops called on us. Leave."

The girl swung away, meeting no resistance, and then flipped the guy off and yelled at him for touching her, claiming, yeah, that was a great idea. "Yeah, I'll call the cops. On you! You can't touch me like that! YOU CAN'T TOUCH ME LIKE THAT!"

The girl, they learned her name was Sriracha (like the sauce… obviously a self-given nick-name), was dragged out by her miserable and humiliated boyfriend, who endured her beating fists and curses. She flipped Jake off as many times as she could… And then she was gone.

Jake rubbed the back of his head tiredly, and dropped the girl's beer into a trash can. Other teens began to laugh, mocking and complaining about the girl. Older girls mimicked her, and compared her to "other b*tches" they knew. They agreed she was psycho. They agreed she wouldn't be allowed to come back. Poor Glasses, they laughed. Poor Glasses.

Only Jake remembered to think of poor Vlad.

*~*~::..+..::~*~*

It was lunch and Vlad was at the running track, sitting on a bench, considering whether or not he should go apologize to the Sauce Girl (he couldn't quite remember what sort of condiment she was named after). But his deliberation was soon made irrelevant as he saw the girl, followed by some unpleasantly familiar guys, marching down the steps of the stadium, past the predominantly empty bleachers.

Vlad watched from his bench, standing when she left the stands and strode in his direction. She started her cursing about this time, and Vlad looked self-consciously about the bleachers, and about the field, as people looked in their direction, stopping their game of soccer or whatnot. Vlad's gaze was torn from the field as someone gripped and yanked his hair, pulling his head down and twisting, ripping hair out by the roots. The bangles and bracelets his hand met made it hard to grab her wrist as he tried to detach the irate girl. And her fingers seemed to stick to his hair, like tacky gummy bears. Very angry gummy bears. … No… he couldn't compare something so aggressive and painful to something so soft and sweet.

She was screaming words, but all Vlad heard was continuous screeching, like an owl swooping at his head as he tried to pull away, and they seemed to turn and circle and zig-zag hectically. People were yelling – Vlad couldn't make out much over the screeches, but as more bodies accumulated near him, he understood that no teacher or aid had been called for. They'd been saying: Look! A girl's fighting with a guy. And she's winning!

…Great. So that's what this looks like.

Sriracha said something that Vlad just missed, but the snipping through hair blotted out the rest of the commotion. Vlad stared down, mutely, tripping over his feet as the struggle continued, and segments of black hair fell or spilled and fanned out over the dirt.

A cry tore through his lips, "Stop that! Please! What are you doing?"

"No," there was a gut wrenching giggle in her voice, which made Vlad's veins sear.

He raised his voice and pushed at her arm, at the fingers and rings and bracelets caught in his hair. "Stop cutting my hair! You're just- just-" he heard another snip, then felt the blades graze his scalp. Vlad started shaking his head, like he'd gone rabid, yanking and tugging the girl about as she stumbled and tried not to fall. She hissed and tightened her grip as he pulled against her. She cut what she could, trying to avoid stabbing her own hand, she hit Vlad's head with the rounded ends of the scissor blades multiple times, and then, nearly flung to the side as Vlad grunted with effort and she snarled a new bout of curses, she started cutting just as Vlad yanked against her – the two movements strengthening her grip to close the scissors. The blades came together halfway through Vlad's ear.

His gasp of pain didn't deter her, but the unexpected blood, the realization that the change she'd felt in what she was cutting hadn't been her imagination... She hadn't cut hair this time. Sriracha let go and jerked herself free as Vlad tripped and stumbled to the side, ripping the strands of hair that were still caught in her jewelry, one ring left to dangle in Vlad's shedding mess of black hair.

Vlad's knees hit the dirt fifteen yards from the porta potty. Those delinquents who had not been alerted or had not been interested in watching or joining in the girl's revenge, peered down from the retaining wall, all quieted, and then intermittent yelling rose to a disorienting babble as people guessed at what had happened. Those on the retaining wall soon saw the brilliant flash of red that clashed against Vlad's pale face and neck, what had dyed his hand and the whole area his hand had covered. Their opinion of Sriracha rose significantly, and they approved of the fact that she wasn't running away, that she was taking credit for her actions, laughing and telling Vlad that this is what he should have expected, for screwing with her. She stood over Vlad, as he was bent over, clasping his ear again, awakening from the shock. A total of fifteen seconds had passed, and then he could process what had happened.

His head rose suddenly, as the girl was in mid-laugh, and her laugh was just pausing as she saw the bright color of his eyes when he stepped forward, grabbed her arm, and pulled her into his fist as he drove his knuckles into her nose. She let out an immediate wail, but Vlad hit her again in the face before the spectators could process what had happened. He grabbed her by her maroon tank-top and threw her, tearing the thin, stretchy material. She landed hard, on her side, in the dusty, rock speckled dirt.

Sriracha immediately rolled over and curled up, screaming for something other than rage. Students were held off by amazement, as more and more yelling and the girl's whines and cries urged an already approaching (though not quite within sight) school supervisor to break into a run.

First the woman was appalled as she realized it had been a fight between a boy and a girl. This feeling cemented as children yelled: "He hit her! He hit her! Twice! He hit her twice and pushed her!" Faintly behind their voices, only a few girls yelled: "She started it! She cut up his face! She's cut up people before! She's crazy!"

It was after the woman had bent over the girl and was holding her back and soothing her; after the girl had raised her head and blubbered: "He b-broke m-my n-no-nose," and resumed sobbing with occasional wails; after the supervisor woman had seen another supervisor, and waved at him to call an ambulance; it was after the woman had looked up on occasion to make sure the boy hadn't escaped, and that he showed no signs of running away, and that he had only suddenly weaved a few unsteady steps and then gone down on his hands and knees on the track rather than flee; after all this, the supervisor heard the girls and the one or two boys who had joined in to say: "Oh my god! She really cut off his ear!" The woman raised her head and saw that the boy had not only vomited all over the track, but he had just turned aside, as though to go to the retaining wall or the porta potty, revealing the right half of his face which was doused in blood. When a girl came near to pick up the scissors and show the supervisor what had happened, the supervisor noticed for the first time that… well, there weren't any other girls coming to their friend's (the victim's) aid. No one came to bend down or crowd over her. Only some delinquent boys wavered uneasily, a good ten feet away.

The supervisor examined the boys, and not knowing how else to make all the connections, other than that she'd caught these boys and this girl smoking cigarettes more than twice now, asked, "How did this all start?" The boys looked at the wall, at the football post, or at their feet, grinding the dirt with their shoes. The girl who had retrieved the scissors chirped, with several other students: "She came out and grabbed his hair." "She was yelling at him, like, that she was gonna-" "Like she said she was going to- um, F him for F-ing with her-" "That he should've minded his own business-" "That he was a freak-" they listed off insults and then resumed the shouted motivations, "That it was his fault she'd fought with her boyfriend and couldn't go out and have fun anymore-" "That he'd ruined everything-" "And she said," one breathless, squeaky girl added distinctly, "She said she was going to cut off all his hair, then- um, and then his- you-know-what, to remind him that he's an ugly freak."

The girl with the scissors finished with, "And then she cut his ear. But I don't think she did it on purpose." A chorus of agreement. "And then he punched her twice in the face and threw her down."

Just as the woman was telling another supervisor on the scene to see to the hurt boy, another student told her, "Yeah, and he basically ripped her shirt off."

Sriracha whimpered through her cupped hands, able to hear the boy now that the others had been quieted, "He ripped my tank-top." She sat up, with help, and the supervisor had to hold the ripped material to keep the girl's bra covered.

"Susan!" The male supervisor called to the woman holding the girl's tank-top together, "Susan, I've got blood all over my hands," he showed her, "If you've got blood on you, have the paramedics clean you off – to be safe."

…

His vision overrun by shadows, Vlad was sweating and chilled on the dirt, his face down, sand-like glassy particles and tiny stones stuck to his mouth, his cheek, bordering his left eye, after being moved around, someone trying to straighten him, rolling his face in the dirt, but he didn't want to get up. The dirt irritated his nose as he breathed, and then it entered his mouth as he tried to breathe that way. His forehead rested in the dirt, rocks pressing painfully into his skin, as he held his ear. Blood rivulets, flowing red paths between his fingers, Vlad shut his eyes tight, and hoped his ear wouldn't really tear all the way off.

The only thing he could ever be good at was the piano. He couldn't have that ruined too.

*~*~::..+..::~*~*

Ch 19: Part I