Friday, October 23, 2015

the yellow wreck

Was it justice? Hard to say.

Mostly it was rage: white hot fire, the sweet release of cracking bone beneath his fists. He tried not to lie to himself. Most everybody else didn’t bother.

Which is why he was watching a parade, a parade in his honor. Head leaned on filthy concrete, he watched ‘em all flow by in the crack between the alley wall and an overflowing dumpster.

It wasn’t official or anything. Public officials can’t endorse murder.

Still, no one cries about rapists’ brains bursting on the sidewalk. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. He made himself remember the victim’s horrified face. It must’ve been quite a show. He couldn’t remember the details, not really. He almost never did.

Poor girl was still held up a Quiet Acres. He probably didn’t do her any favors. Splatter brains sure as shit wouldn’t be raping anybody else, though. Call that one a wash, maybe. Maybe not. The “hero” got what he needed though.

It wasn’t like he could just let it happen, right? He just never pulled back, never could pull back. Did he really even try?  Probably not. He tried not to lie to himself.

Instead he fished around through the garbage until he came across a half wrecked cigarette. Smoke across old ashes tasted like bitter needs. There was just enough to salve the hunger in his chest.

He’d fought for as long as he could remember. Ever since that day, the very last day he ever ran, he just kept swinging.

For some reason wearing a yellow balaclava made him less horrible. He got banned for life and had to skip bail for breaking some card-sharp’s jaw when he was 20. 10 years later, making some purse-snatching shithead suck soup through a straw got him a fucking parade.

He liked to hurt people, or maybe he needed to hurt people. He felt better hurting bad people... maybe just because the consequences were easier. Probably so.

He tried not to lie to himself.


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