No doubt.
The other one is silent as he pummels me, catching me on older bruises and cuts, opening them again so blood flows, warm against my cold skin. Halfheartedly, I twist out of his reach—only to be kicked again by Crichton.
Look, I deserve it. I know I do, and some days I wonder what’s there to fight for. Who I am defending? Myself? What for?
Some instinct of self-preservation rises out of nowhere and I throw a punch at his face, but it doesn’t connect. His brother slams into me from behind, and together they throw me to the asphalt and lay into me.
A boot catches me in the ribs and I curl in the dirt of the road, my breath cut off. Fuck... Even filtered through the black fog of guilt, this hurt. The superintendent won’t like it if I turn up at work all bruised and fresh out of a street fight, although I didn’t start it.
As if he’d believe that. Everyone knows I’m evil incarnate. My dad believes it. Why shouldn’t they? I made sure they would.
Reap what you sow, and all that shit.
Another kick catches me, and I bite back a groan, then turn my head and spit blood. Okay. This is okay, this is right. Nobody will listen if I try to apologize now, make amends. Too late to be sorry, right? So this is all I can offer. All I can do is shut up and take it. Accept the pain and the humiliation because I have a choice, just like others didn’t get a choice when my gang bore down on them, bullying them and hurting them.
And I was the goddamn leader. No point in lying about it, denying it, refusing it. I was the leader, and this is my fucking penance.
***
Later on, after my penitence for the day has left a small puddle of blood on the street behind the grocery store—from my split lip and a cut I got on a shard of glass as I was kicked about—my road takes me, limping and cursing, between thinning houses and gardens, toward the river.
Just another fine day in the life of Ross Jones. What do I win from bleeding out? From letting them lay into me every day? Do I regain a measure of peace? No. Does it make me a better man? No.
Do I feel like an idiot? Yeah, mostly.
Then why the fuck can’t I stop? I should fight harder, introduce my fist into their ugly mugs properly, show them who is boss around here. Show them that they should be fucking afraid of me, just like they were years ago. You can chain a tiger, but you should never trust him. Dad taught me that. Taught me about cruelty and hopelessness.
Only fucking problem is, that’s not me anymore. The boss. The leader.
I don’t know who the hell I am.
A cooler breeze is blowing here, laced with other smells: water, mud and shit and rotting things. I wipe at my bleeding lip with the back of my hand, wince at the stab in my kidneys, and curse again, remembering I have no way of numbing the pain tonight, the last of my money having gone into that bottle that’s now lying in pieces on the asphalt. I should be getting paid soon, but still.
Sucks ass.
This is it, Ross my boy, I tell myself and fuck if it isn’t Dad’s voice speaking inside my ringing head. Down in the doldrums. Down, as in, all the way down to the bottom. Hit the end of the line. You’re sinking faster now.
No lifeline.
Let go.
But I keep going. No idea why. One foot in front of the other, one fucking drop of blood after the other. I walk toward the water. Cross paths with a couple stray dogs, hiss at them until they slink away.
Don’t wanna think about how much this life stinks, or I might just decide to end it. It’s crossed my mind a few times. Go ahead and be shocked. Go ahead and accuse me of being a coward. Tell me others have it worse. That I’m not worth an easy way out.
It’s what I keep telling myself, too. You don’t get off that lightly. You don’t get to escape. You did bad shit. You have to pay.
Fucking hell.
Now, I’ve never been religious. Never gave penance much thought as I grew up. Never thought much beyond getting through the day, staying out of dad’s clutches even for a few hours, numbing the anger and pain with booze and drugs, when I could get my hands on them. Making others hurt, transferring the pain to them, that was my way. Why should they be okay when I wasn’t, right?
It made sense at the time. Still does sometimes. When the anger gets the better of me. Gets fucking hold of me, sinking claws into my chest and shaking me. Making me into what I am.
Nothing can save me anymore.
Yeah, I’m the monster in your closet, under your bed.
Run away while you can.