▎. . . In which seven boys meet in the school counsellor's office every week and are given a group project to work on for the year.
UNDERGOING REWRITING
sidemen...
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‟︎ 𝐆𝐎 𝐎𝐍, 𝐉𝐈𝐃𝐄!"
Everything was underwater, trillions of miles below, and Olajide Olatunji was a raging comet in furious, dazzling, terrifying, glorious orbit. Far up in the exosphere, staring their star in the face, veins illuminated by the divine honey pools of sunlight. JJ was fifteen. JJ was euphoric. JJ was horrified. JJ was winning, and that's all that mattered.
Crimson paint splattered on the pavement, that's what he told himself. Nothing wrong with a bit of paint. But his knuckles were beginning to ache now, with punch after punch after punch and fucking hell, this kid was barely recognisable anymore.
His brain was rotting, seeping out of the crack along his temple, unleashing all the remorse he had been too brash to admit to before.
But JJ was winning. Straddling the teen and gritting his teeth, he opted for another hit, directly to the jaw. A gruesome clicking noise could be heard even from inside the school building.
The victim was thirteen. A thirteen year old boy, with bony arms and buck teeth (well, until they had spun into the cement, rattling like porcelain pennies).
But he had made fun of Deji, and everyone had been egging JJ on all day to just punch him, just punch him, JJ, show him who's boss. Make him pay.
How could he have said no to that?
It was a thrill, knowing you were better than someone, knowing there was nothing they could do once you got the upper hand. The pure defenceless look on that kid's face after JJ had struck him hard, truly hard, for the first time. Instant regret, and apologies came fluttering out from his battered lungs, mixing with the blood that seeped down to his chin.
Clarity was a beautiful thing. A fresh pair of eyes to rake over the damage done, the medical bills mounting up on the register in any other country, and maybe that was part of JJ's excuses, too. He could hospitalise whoever he pleased because, hey, at least the treatment was free.
JJ didn't like this clarity, though.
Watering eyes flooded down towards the kid, disfigured against the tarmac, head angled in such a grotesque way. Did he do that? The unfocused gaze wandered to his own hands, dipped into the divine mixture of blood and sweat. His knuckles bled, but at least he was open wide. This was who JJ Olatunji was: animalistic, hungry for hierarchy, quick to please the audience and run around the ring once more.
