Right Now

let the water cover me, and wash away the pain from my naked body. It’s cold, but I like it that way. Everything becomes numb, and it’s hard to know if pain is inside or out. Each time a drop hits me I want to forget about what happened.

I cry.

The tears become lost with the other droplets streaming down my face so I can’t taste the salt, almost like I wasn’t feeling at all. The water gets colder, and the hurt becomes more real.

I bring my head and knees together, rocking back and forth. For years I’ve been trying to numb the pain, but it numbs me instead. I want to forget about what happened. What I just did.

 

What Led to Right Now:

A Day at the Office

Like most kids I hate high school. Hate being made fun of by stoners or jocks. Hate the fact that the pretty girls like the stoners or jocks, and I hate teachers that hate me for not being a stoner or jock.I can't even be classified as a dork, even though the stoners and jocks might call me that.

I walk through the hallways, and watch as people stare into peeling floor tiles to avoid looking at me when I pass. Kids throw food my way in the cafeteria (mostly Joft, and other stoners that hang out with him). They’re four or five white guys who talk and dress like they’ve seen “Boyz ‘N’ the Hood” one too many times.

I’m getting pretty tired of washing mayonnaise stains out of my clothes too. The stuff smells like shit when it dries out.

Today during lunch Joft actually sits at my table (the round table in the corner with seven chairs. I sit on the one that’s uneven and tilts when you place weight on it. I feel bad if I don’t sit there for some reason). He’s all-smiles. I’m a nervous wreck waiting for an insult of some kind, but I honestly don’t mind the company.

“What’s up Sammy,” he says. I look up from my soggy meatball sub with watered down tomato sauce, pretending that I didn’t notice him sit down.

“Hey Joft. What’s going on?”

“Not much man. So uh, whacha eating there?” he asks with a wide grin.

What a strange question. I look at him with raised eyebrows, and say, “Just a sub.”

“Looks like shit,” he says.

“Tastes like shit.” I take another mushy bite.

He nods to someone in the distance behind me. I ignore it. “So what else is up man? You doing anything this weekend?” he asks.

“Not really. Just homework I guess…and I gotta do some extra running for wrestling.”

“Oh yeah, you’re trying to move down a weight class this year right?”

I nod, and Joft tells me that I’ll be in his weight class then. I nod again. He just stares at me with narrowed eyes, and slightly opened mouth. My point of view goes to my sub, and I watch a meatball roll out of the bread as the tomato water soaks through.

Joft breaks the silence. “Hey could I borrow your text book for Global Studies. I just wanna go over the chapter reviews before the test.”

“Yeah sure man.” I go to grab my book-bag, but I miss or something, and I’m only able to grasp air. Then I look underneath my chair, and it’s gone. I look under the table, on the table, under other tables and it’s nowhere. My hearts sinks.

Today I brought in the new Absolute Zero comic for Bobby, and his friend Franky, to look at after school, and it’s in that pack.

Joft is gone.

I soon find him sitting in the corner with the rest of the stoner convention. My book-bag is in the middle of the table zipped open with guts spilling out as the Hyenas rejoice and share the meat.

I walk over to them and ask to have my books back. They keep on talking as if I’m not even there. Then the comic books are found, and the laughing commences. “You still read comics?” one asks, I think his name is Nick.“What a fag!” I ask again to have them back and I’m ignored. I reach for my things, but they’re pulled away. My body heats up, and my face becomes red…(I know because I can feel the heat in my ears). I want to cry.

I go to get a teacher.

Morbidly obese Mr. Tufuri is working the room today with his greasy spiked hair and Hitler like mustache. A lounge act saxophone player turned high school music teacher. He looks like the type of guy who favors playing “Leisure Suit Larry” over spending time with his own children. I tell him what’s going on and he rolls his eyes but finally waddles over to the table.

“C’mon boys,” he says with a seemingly infinite amount of phlegm in his throat. “Give it back man.” Then one of the stoners, I think his name is Eric (in fact I know it is, we used to play manhunt together before I moved in with my grandmother) tells Mr. Tufuri how I still read comics.

Tufuri grabs the soon to be collectors edition of Absolute Zero and laughs. “Jeez Sammy,” he says, “these are things my five year old son reads. You gotta grow up man.” He starts looking through it.

His sausage-like fingers bend the crisp pages, and crease the spine.

That fat fuck.

I want to take him by his big fat head and slam him into the wall.

I think of how nice it would be to rid the world of this human
grease spot that poses as a teacher.

He’s evil.

But I just stand there, and force a smile that says, “Haha, yes very funny. You’re right. I suck as a human being. I find it funny that I suck and that you are all able to point this out to me. You’re all very creative, and I’m sorry that your father didn’t go to your little league games but can I have my bag back?”

Tufuri throws the comic back onto the table and walks away while muttering something about how they need to stop screwing around and give me back my bag. Joft gets serious and starts placing all my books into the pack leaving the top unzipped.

Joft can be a very good guy sometimes.

He walks over to me pretends to trip and sends the open bag into the trash barrel just to my right.

I think he may have done this intentionally.

I bet his friends made him do it.

The bell rings and the stoners get up and dump their half eaten soggy-subs on top of my things. I sort through the mess after everyone is gone and collect the books. All of the Absolute Zero comics are ruined; I want to cry again. I hold it in and head to the bathroom smelling like vinegar and what I imagine to be used kitty litter

The toilets in the second floor bathroom are nice and rarely used, but I put paper down on the rim of the seat anyway to cover yellow specks of dried urine. No need to sit in piss no matter how dry it is.

I don’t have to take a dump. I just want people to think I am in case anyone comes in or looks underneath or even peeks over the stall.

For a while I sit there reading the carvings etched into the metallic paint. Someone penned in a swastika with a phrase underneath that says “Metallica Rulz!” I don’t know if the two are related, but it would make sense to me if they were.

Tears spill easily when no one else is watching and I let them release me.

All four of the Absolute Zero comics are soaked in chocolate milk and tomato water. It makes the pages crumple and the ink run. The dialogue is almost impossible to read and it makes me think this is how Hunter S. Thompson must see the world when he’s tripping on adrenaline or light bulbs or whatever the hell it is he smokes.

I start to read the comics even though I can only make out certain pictures. The world of AZ is amazing. His ability to freeze things—his skin tight black and white costume that highlights his muscles—I wish I could look that way, the way a man is supposed to look.

I study each panel in detail: his poses, his posture, the way he bends over. Everything about this hero is just mesmerizing.

More than ninety minutes pass. My legs are numb by the time the third bell sounds. I stand up and cringe in pain as the blood rushes back into my thighs, calves and feet. After getting used to walking again I go to meet Bobby hoping he’ll forgive me for the ruined comics I promised to him.

 

All That Friends Allow

Room 202 is our designated meeting spot. This is where my favorite history teacher, Mr. Parker, lets me read or draw during my free periods. I take out the comics and Bobby expresses his disappointment.

“What the fuck is this?” he asks loudly. “They’re ruined. And they smell like shit Sammy.” He takes in a closer whiff and his head jerks backwards.“Shitty shit.”

“Yeah, that does smell like shit,” says his friend Franky.

I stand there with nothing to say.

Bobby is still pretty pissed. “Man, Sammy you promised man.”

“Yeah, you promised Sammy,” says Franky, posing as the world’s most annoying echo.

Bobby unbuttons the collar of his pressed shirt. He tells me it’s okay if I can get other copies by next week. I jump at the offer and thank him for being so nice. I sit down at the desk across from him and we begin to talk about the new AZ issue.

Before the whole thing got smeared I was able to read how AZ almost dies at the hands of a couple of thugs (they had a lighter, and fire is his one weakness).

Bobby is really engaged in what I’m saying and Franky tries to look like he’s engaged in the hopes that Bobby will notice. I tell them how AZ escapes, but that he had to kill one of the thugs to save his own life by hitting him over the head with a tire iron.

“No way!” Bobby says. Franky doesn’t understand why this matters and asks what the big deal is. “You’re an idiot Frank! Heroes don’t kill.”

“What about the Punisher?” Franky asks. “He’s crazy, he kills everyone.” This is a good point.

“Oh please.” I begin to notice how whiny Bobby sounds and why is he still arguing? “The Punisher doesn’t count as a real hero. He doesn’t have any powers.”

Frank raises another point, “What about Batman? He doesn’t have any powers.”

Bobby sighs. “Please! He was like one of the first heroes ever! He’s exempt from your crappy criticisms.”

I try to cut in. “I don’t think it really matters guys. I mean, I think it’s kind of cool that AZ killed this guy. Look how nuts he looks after. Pulling off his mask. And his muscles look so tight, like he’s gonna explode, and the blood is smeared all over the black and white costume. It looks cool.” I keep on staring at AZ crouched over a lifeless body, his hands stained with blood, mask off, tears flowing. I feel bad for him…but there was no other way.

Bobby talks again. “It matters Sammy! How can you say that? He’s a hero and he just killed someone. No. That’s not right. It’s just shock value. He shouldn’t even have his own book! He’s not a real character anymore.”

Franky cringes, but is too afraid to speak. I talk for the both of us. “I don’t know man. I mean it’s realistic. What else was he supposed to do? I’d do the same thing.”

“You’d kill a man?” asks Bobby.

“If he was going to take my life? I wouldn’t even think about it. I’d do it in a second.” I say, although I’m a little unsure of this. When I finish speaking I make sure that my face looks like a lawyer lying.

Bobby exhales in a way to show me he’s disgusted. “Whatever man. You just don’t get it I guess. Heroes help people no matter what. They don’t kill.”

I roll my eyes and wonder why I’m here. Then I look out the window seeing nothing but an empty field and remember. “Well, I gotta head to practice. I’ll get some of the AZ issues tonight and we can trade next week or something.”

“Naw,” Bobby says. “Naw I don’t want to trade for this guy. C’mon Franky.”

The two leave me alone with unreadable comics.

I focus on the last panel of the AZ issue, how he stands over some thug whose body is drowning in his own pool of blood. Yellow thought boxes appear in the last frame.

That’s the way it always is with heroes—

real thoughts

don’t come

until blood is spilled.

 

Grandma’s House

When I was eleven I hated going to school even more than I do now.

My mother used to dress me in clothes that looked different from everyone else’s (sweat-pants and button-down shirts for some reason). She would blow dry my hair in the morning to kind of make it look spiked since she thought hair-gel was filled with germs.

Kids were awful. The torment never seemed to end and I used to fake headaches.

Every morning I would wake up telling my parents I had a horrible headache and couldn’t go to school. Sometimes it worked. Most times not.

At night I cried.

In the darkness I half dreamed of my parents dying and this would allow the tears to come.

I imagined walking into school and telling my teachers my awful story. They would cry too. Kids who didn’t know me would approach and say, “Sorry man, I’m sorry.” Girls would cry. And in the darkness I would cry until tears choked me to sleep.

How ironic. Two years later both my parents would die in a car crash in the month of August during the summer break. Teachers were never informed, students never had a change of heart. The school simply received a change of address notice and that was it.

No tears were shed, no sympathies were expressed. Things went on like a weekday at the office.

At fourteen, I moved into my grandmother’s attic where pink installation leaked from the walls and loose nails threatened to scratch bare feet. There were no light fixtures there and I was forced to read comics by candlelight. It kind of added a romance to it I guess, as I watched how flickering flames would highlight Absolute Zero’s chest, or Robin’s calves when he would leap across rooftops chasing after Batman.

It made shadows move at night bringing everything around me to life. Lives that I controlled.

But tears don’t fall here anymore, only fear does. In the darkness is where I imagine, or half dream, of beating all of those junkies at their own game.

At night I’m strong enough, and smart enough, to beat them at anything.

In the black of night reading comics makes sense and it’s not such a handicap anymore. It lets me reach a newfound potential.

I strip down to nothing and allow the moonlight to paint my naked body a pale white.

I shine in the shadows.

My body glistens under the open window. Next to a large white candle I find my mask, a replica of Absolute Zero’s I bought on E-bay last year. It’s elastic, covers the whole face, half black, half white with triangular eye slits. I put it on and decide to move around the darkened house.

Everything at night looks different, somehow larger. It doesn’t seem as dangerous as daylight…no one can tell who I am or if I’m even there. I blend in with shadows and sneak into my grandmother’s room.

This is the first time I’ve watched her sleep in a very long time. Watching her lungs move up and down in perfect rhythm, that half-smile carved into her wrinkled face, never asking me for anything and only wanting for me to be happy.

I think of Joft. Of how much he loves wrestling. How I do it just to be around other guys that don’t read and breathe comics.

I sit on the floor with eyes still set on Grandma. I hear her voice.

Heroes don’t kill.

Heroes help people.

Things always work out for jocks,

stoners,

heroes

and nerds.

Kids like me get naked,

and pretend to have conversations

with their sleeping grandmothers.

I go upstairs back to my room. In the mirror I see myself wearing the mask and I can see it painting my body into a heroes shape.

I suddenly look good. The pouch of fat that never goes away recedes into muscle and makes a cool V shape pointing to my crotch;

Bony shoulders become firm.

My body looks like AZ’s.

Cut and toned.

I can see why he’s such a popular hero, but I don’t quite
understand why criminals would fear him.

In the mirror I see Joft on his knees with tears in his eyes begging for my help; I do what any hero would do and decide to answer the call.

 

The Wood Match

It’s a home match. I weigh in with the refs. Cut my fingernails and make myself puke. Joft comes into the locker-room late. He sits next to me and wishes me luck. I tell him I’m sorry and he calls me a fucking nut case, but in a good way.

This makes me smile.

Coach tells Joft that he’s acting like a real leader and I’d have to agree…he gave up his spot so I could wrestle in his stead. My first varsity match.

The team leaves me and I’m now surrounded by hollowed gray lockers without locks. They fill the room with a scent of rust that is somehow calming.

I lie down face first on the tiled floor. Even though the tiles look glossy from above they feel gritty and rough when pressed against flesh…more like cement. My tongue moves out of my mouth on its own, licking the floor. It tastes cold.

Funny, I thought a locker room floor would have tasted more like me, or another wrestler.

I feel ready.

In the gym a crowd has formed (mostly consisting of parents and kids who just got out of detention or Mr. Dells Drivers Ed. Class, the class that Bobby takes at night. I hope he comes to watch me wrestle, but I doubt he will).

My legs shake.

Joft helps me warm up. He knows no one else would have.

My weight class is called, he gives me a sportish hug. I give him a long one and he kind of pushes me off. This must be hard for him, being nice to an outsider. But he’s good at it when people are watching.

My opponent wears a black singlet. It makes him look paler than he actually is. We shake hands. He comes at me fast, too fast. Before I know it I’m up in the air and I hit the ground with a lung- crushing thud.

Heroes don’t lose.

I scramble to my stomach. My arm is being bent, my face turned to the other side, forcing me to roll onto my back.

This is going to be over quick.

The kid in black tights puts his leg between mine, it doesn’t hurt at all, and I don’t mind it being there.

Soon the kid freezes. I turn onto my stomach and crawl to an escape, earning myself a point. The score is now 8 to 1. I start to circle him doing my best wrestler imitation. The kid just stands there staring. The refs whistle drops out of his mouth. I look down to find that I have a gigantic boner.

I run after the kid, he moves away and turns his back on me so I lunge at his ankles and drag him in. It takes a few seconds but I get him on his back; he doesn’t even try to resist and the match is over. The ref doesn’t raise my arm. I do it myself.

Heroes win.

 

Raw

As I walk towards the bench my teammates don’t congratulate me. They stare in apparent disgust. Behind me Joft is yelling at the coach and the coach apologizes by saying he didn’t know college scouts would be in the audience today

(did they even see my match?).

Joft’s voice becomes muffled with exaggerated breaths. The coach keeps on apologizing, and admits this was Joft’s last chance to get scouted for a scholarship since no one comes to our town.

We don’t have great athletes or great people.

In the stands I see Joft’s friends, Nick and Eric. They’re pointing and laughing at me. I wish I could hear what they’re saying. There’s always someone who points or laughs or thinks bad things; I never get used to it. But the win makes it easier to deal with.

I watch Joft closely as he takes a solitary seat in the bleachers. He has tears building up in his eyes. He looks so alone, and his friends don’t even notice. After a couple of minutes he catches me looking at him. I don’t look away.

He gives me the finger,

and still,

I don’t look away.

He gets up and summons Nick and Eric. The three walk to the locker room together as the next match commences. Not being a fan of wrestling I follow the three to see what’s going on.

I doubt I’ll score onto anything big like nuns planning world domination in Absolute Zero issue 46, but maybe I can help someone, somehow.

They talk as though ropes were tied around their throats. The locker room smells different than it did before the match. No longer can I sense the metal around me.

It feels and tastes like the walls themselves are sweating a very putrid sweat. Pipes above carry rushing water to toilets throughout the school, and voices become harder to hear. Something about getting drunk on the bridge…throwing bottles onto the cars below. The bridge above Crossing Lake.

I could tell the police or an adult.

But I might be able to do something on my own,

and then I’d have something to tell Bobby,

something better than just a comic book.

I don’t even have to get involved.

I can just stay in the woods, and yell something.

They’d never even know it was me.

But maybe I shouldn’t.

Someone yells at me, I understand the second time around.

“Yo! Wake up! I’m talking to you.” It’s Nick. He’s very tall. Skinny too. Always seems to have the same scraggly hairs on his upper lip. His face hiding underneath a tilted baseball cap that has some symbol I’ve never seen before. Words keep on leaving his mouth like shrapnel. “What the fuck are you doing here man? Why are you watching us?”

I don’t say anything. Joft approaches me and says, “You know scouts were here today? Came unannounced. Coach had to tell ‘em I was helping you. You think they care bout that shit? That bullshit!”

His voice becomes gritty like the floor, and he struggles to keep the volume leveled. “You fucked me over Sammy! I’ve always been nice to you man. Even tried to be nice today…but the scouts were here…” He has to cover his face with open hands. I make out muffled sobs.

His friends give him looks of awkwardness. Joft screams, “Why’d you lie!” He pushes me, hard, into the lockers…it hurts. “Answer me!” He pushes again.

I stay quiet, for I have nothing to say, and I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about.

“I know why. Because you’re a fucking fag. Everyone saw out there when you had tent city going up in your crotch. That’s why you stayed on the team even when you never got a shot to wrestle. You liked touching me.”

I try to speak, “No that’s not true. Joft, I didn’t mean anything…” Joft’s fist hits my stomach. I go mute. He tells Nick, and Eric to lock the door.

“Fucking freak!” Joft’s crying, almost mournfully. It scares the shit out of me to see someone like him cry. “Just because you didn’t want people to know what they already think. You lying fuck!”

I beg, “Please Joft. What the hell are you talking about? Just relax. I think you’re just upset.”

He punches me in the face, and I my head goes numb. I’ve never been punched before. The worst part isn’t the actual punch; it’s waiting to get punched. All that suspense and drama…more than I can handle.

Joft pounds again and again until I collapse into a fetal position. Punches turn into kicks that make me breathe pieces of flesh through my mouth, and nose.

I can’t feel my face, and I finally learn what my blood tastes like, kind of like warm metal.

Nick, and Eric watch. They don’t join in. After a few minutes they pull Joft off, or at least that’s what it sounds like. His exhales are loud and deep; while his inhales are shorter, more high -pitched. They finally leave me on the tiled floor, alone and bloody.

Anger creeps in. It forces me to rise. Half of me wants to find a tire iron, the other half wants to hug him for some unannounced reason.

I leave the locker room through the back entrance as I hear roars from the crowd still watching the match. Cold night air stings my raw flesh. What would a hero do at a time like this?

I go to find Bobby, knowing that he’s in Mr. Dells Driver’s Ed. Class.

He’s not sitting in the bleachers, so I go to the classroom. Sure enough he’s sitting there, reading comic books. I call his name. At first he doesn’t know me, but soon his eyes grow wide in recognition. “What happened?” he asks. Before he gets up he puts his comic back in its air tight poly bag, and he finally helps me sit down.

I’m dizzier than I thought.

I ask him why he didn’t watch the match, and he tells me he forgot I was on the team in the first place.

After a silent moment Bobby asks, “What the hell happened to your face?” So I tell him everything…the wrestling scouts that Joft would never meet, and the beat down he handed to me in the locker room for the boner I popped during the match.

Bobby doesn’t look freaked out. He looks as if he’s heard this story a million times before.

“You popped a boner?” He asks.

I nod.

“Well, I don’t know what to say to that. I can see why it would weird him out. It’s a pretty weird time to pop a boner.” The room goes silent for a few seconds.

“Well, I don’t know,” I say, “It kinda just happened. I didn’t mean for it to go off like that. But, what should I do Bobby? I gotta do something.” I put my hand under my nose to catch some blood, and then sniff it up loudly.

Bobby’s hand caresses his comic until he says, “Get a teacher. Report him, what else are you gonna do?”

“I don’t know,” my voice deflating, “I don’t wanna be a pussy about it.” Which is true, no one likes a snitch, or a pussy. “In the locker room they said they were going to the bridge. Maybe I should go.”

“And do what? Fight them?” He laughs. “Sammy, they’ll tear you apart.”

“I don’t want to fight them. Joft looked upset. I wanna be there for him, like he’s always been there for me,” I look down. “Ya know? I only wanta help.”

Bobby looks at me like my left eyeball dropped from its socket. “Sammy. The kid only makes fun of you. He’s a dick, you don’t owe him anything.”

My head shakes in response.

“Listen to me. Don’t go. You could get really hurt, those guys are douche bags. Don’t go man, just go home.” He doesn’t notice when his comic drops to the ground.

I keep my head down, and walk out the door. Bobby doesn’t say anything to stop me.

At home I put my mask on and stare into the mirror…watching the fat on my gut melt into muscle. Bobby’s wrong. Joft needs my help, he needs a hero, and I’m going to be that hero.

 

Into the Night

Running through the darkness is hard. You trip on things a lot.

Wearing a mask is hard as well. The slits are triangular, to make me look intimidating I guess, and the area around your mouth becomes soaked with saliva (which is kind of gross). Plus, my ass was handed to me not even forty-five minutes ago.

I run as bruises form, and pieces of my head swell. At least the bleeding’s stopped. Within ten minutes I’m able to see Crossing Lake bridge through the woods. It stands about 100 feet above the four-lane road. The bridge itself has been closed off for quite some time, and the area is not well lit.

At first the place looks desolate. It takes a couple of minutes for my eyes to adjust to the mix of orange crime-lights below the hill, and the silver moon. I spot a parked car on the North side of the bridge, and I’m able to see a lone figure leaning on one of the guard- rails…looking down into oncoming traffic.

It’s Joft. I’m sure of it.

I decide to keep the mask on.

It takes a good five minutes to maneuver through the dark trees, and uneven ground. I fall a few times, and I start to worry about cutting my exposed nipples. For some reason I think that would hurt a great deal (can nipples cut right off?).

I hear cars below screech to a halt. I can’t quite make out what has happened. Maybe Joft made a great hit with an 8 ouncer.

I have to climb up a part of the bridge, and then an eight-foot barricade. I guess the other end still has an opening for cars. I jump down and look around.

I don’t see anyone. Where’d Joft go?

I keep the mask on. Below my feet I notice about ten or twelve empty green bottles of beer…labels peeled off, and crumpled onto the concrete. I pick one of them up, and smell it; then lift my mask to lick its rim. It smells like beer and tastes like nothing. I expected more.

I hear someone in front of me. Can’t really hear what he’s saying though. He gets closer, and says “Nick,” Joft’s voice is slurred. He must be wasted. “Nick is that you?”

“No,” I say, and then I remember I don’t have a superhero name.

“Wha?” He takes a final chug from his bottle, and slams it on the ground. “Who, are you?” I can hardly understand what he says next since each word is covered with a blanket of laughter. “Are…are you…wearing a mask?”

I kind of flex, ya know, to show him my muscles. He laughs even harder, and my head drops. “I only came here to help you Michael,” I say in my deepest superhero voice.

“Shit. Sammy is that you?” His face is serious, and he walks towards me, forcing my heart to drop. “Goddamn, that is you isn’t it?”

“No. It’s not me!” Joft stands right in front of me, and takes off my mask. “I thought you needed help,” my words are soft, like my exposed gut. “I only wanted to help ya out. Like you helped me before the match.”

The mask drops, and Joft says. “I don’t need help. Jesus,” he takes a step back. “You really are a fucking freak aren’t you?”

“No, Joft. Don’t say that. I’m your friend.”

“Fuck you…fuck you!” His voice gets louder every time he steps back. “Get the fuck out of here! Fucking go Sammy! Fuck you, you fucking freak! Go man! Fucking go!” He keeps on screaming.

“Joft I just wanna help you!” I try to scream it, but my voice cracks, like it always does.

A beer bottle leaves his hand, and lands at my feet. “I don’t want your help, freak! Get the fuck outta here!” He throws another, and another until he hits the side of my face. I don’t fall down, I don’t cry. I only look at him, and Joft stops yelling, and stops throwing. Blood streams out of so many cuts, and covers me in a new mask of velvet red. We stand there for a long time, looking at each other.

“Just go Sammy,” he says. “I won’t tell anyone if you just go.”

I turn, and leave…then I run all the way home, ignoring all the pain…all of it.

 

My Last Night as a Hero

In the suburbs everyone seems to be asleep by 11pm. In comics cities aren’t like this. The people are its lifeblood, and blood is always awake, always moving, and always alive. Suburbs are stoic, flat and dead.

Big globs of rain hit my face, freezing the pain and rinsing me clean. I take off my pants, and sit there on my grandmother’s lawn, letting my ass sink into mushy blades. No one’s there to watch me with piercing eyes, and sinful thoughts. So I sit there, and let the rain freeze everything.

(I wish I had my mask).

I hope Joft doesn’t tell anyone.

I hope Bobby doesn’t find out.

I hope I don’t wake up tomorrow.

(I wish mom was still alive).

Joft needs help still.

I hope someone comes to my funeral one day.

I hope Mom isn’t looking down at me right now.

I’m not a hero anymore, I don’t think I ever was.

I start rocking thinking of the days when the hurt was worse than this, and the tomorrows that promise to rip me to shreds.

 

[END]

© 2005 Matt Thomas - Contributor's Bio

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