Burns

1.

Hoodies had become my favourite thing. At least it shielded my face—which felt like my existence—from the world.

I held a sleeve-covered hand up and wiped my nose against the thick cotton fabric. I was barely existing underneath my thick wear and unable to be seen. I delved my hands deep into the pockets of my sweatpants. I just wanted nothing more than to be away from the streets I was walking on, to be perfectly distanced from the humanity I was now used to.

I didn't want to get spotted around town because who knows, they'd blame me for God knows what this time around.

I've been called a thief for walking into a store with a pack of chips, the shop owner clearly believed I stole them, rather than my honest claim of just wanting to buy cold cola to take alongside with my chips.

I've been called a rapist for trying to return a wallet which a girl had dropped. No one listened to my claims of trying to discreetly call out to her and following her just to hand her her wallet.

Discreetly? That's because I didn't want to draw attention to myself. Back then, I was still nursing a black eye which had been gifted to me by a bunch of kids who jumped me on my way back from high school. 

They still didn't listen to me. They beat me, handed me over to the local police and added a few tweaks to a story that wasn't even how it was in the first place. I got a few more beatings while locked behind a cell for three days.

Everyone hated me. And all I had done is try to be nice to them. I was the kid every parent advised their children to stay away from and never be like. They even sneered at me, to my hearing. Such disregard of human emotions. 

Back then during high school, no matter how hard I tried to cover my existence with giant hoodies and baggy pants, nose mask and boots, I was still the great outcast. Teachers even made it obvious. I was an example of every negative topic they taught even though most times it never made sense what they were talking about, but somehow, my very name got linked to it.

It got so bad, I couldn't take it anymore; so after senior year I quit school. I applied to colleges outside my little town but got rejected because apparently word about my supposed 'reputation' was sent by my school. That day ruined any ounce of niceness I had towards my town.

I used to feel bad when they talked, I used to try to defend myself, I used to try to reason with them whenever I was due for my daily beating but what did it get me? More beatings, broken bones and a broken life. 

People threw shitty stuff at me whenever I was found walking around. No one mingles with me. I'd been ostracized and couldn't even make an innocent purchase in peace. 

Now, I didn't give two fucks anymore. They beat me, I beat back. They say shit, I barely acknowledge it. They try to be intimidating, I growl at them. Lowkey, they fear this mean, emotionless nineteen year old that they had succeeded in creating. I don't try to help anymore because where has that ever gotten me? Instead, I step on their beaten up bodies whenever I was done fighting those lousy kids back.

I had scars that were beyond repair. I was been broken beyond piecing together. I had only anger, hatred, resentment and nothing more in me. And that was why I was walking alone down the nearly empty streets, constantly wiping stray blood dripping down my nose. I had a throbbing black eye and possibly a broken nose but it was worth it.

I gave those bastard punks a taste of their medicine. I smirked evilly, remembering the battered state I had left those idiots in, though I got a brutal beat-back. Kids my age trembled at the sight of my dark figure approaching but they never admit it, they rather prefer to feed themselves with pain that boosted their ego by attacking me. 

I mumbled incoherent curses underneath my breath, feeling my left palm sting. A reminder of how that fucker named Uri, had sliced my palm. Actually, that slice was aimed at my throat. That meat-head wanted to freaking kill me and he would have succeeded if I hadn't extended my left hand out in defence, letting it take the agonising cut instead.

I had been beaten a lot and I had grown thick skin to it but tonight was the first time a murder was attempted on me. Uri said I didn't deserve to be alive after what he did. And for the first time in a lot of years, I felt genuine hurt flash through my eyes at the venom with which he spat his cruel words out.

I snorted, wondering why it felt new to me. The town hated me but what kind of hatred lets you turn a blind eye to partaking in an innocent nearly dying? It puzzled me deeply but then again, the town is fucked up. I was damn sure parents filled their kids' heads with stories about me being evil because my father did some horrific things. 

I frowned with the grit of my teeth. Just because a man did great evil did not mean his child should be passed upon consequences of his sin. I deserved a fair chance to be known as my own person; instead I was being jeered at. 

I spotted my house further down the street. It  was the only house that far away. Other houses were tight knitted. I didn't have neighbors. I hurried my steps, feeling my eye water and throb. Jesus Christ this shit hurts! And I didn't know which hurt more, my bleeding palm which was hidden behind my baggy sleeve or my bruised body or my eye or my throbbing groin.

 I grimaced as images of how that Kid Uri along with Jason had me trapped in the hold of their fellow cohorts who had grabbed me and held me tight after giving them a beautiful beating, leaving me exposed to both psychos who after delivering hard punches to my body, proceeded to leave cruel kicks aimed at my groin. I jerked and hissed in pain as the pain shot all over.

Jason pulled me closer and kneed me in the balls. I coughed out in pain and groaned. Their aim was to damage my dick and my balls since they couldn't kill me and probably leave many broken bones. Uri signalled his boys to drop me and they scurried away while I palmed my groin and writhed and wheezed on the floor for a solid thirty minutes before I could finally be able to stand up.

I wouldn't have taken it so lightly to let them run away if I hadn't remembered that they were also as badly bruise—well, almost. 

Honestly, it still hurt to walk. I felt like something wasn't right down there but then again, my palm distracted me. I couldn't cry out while getting beaten because I couldn't. I couldn't cry. I hadn't cried for years now. I was that hardened. I could only double over, groan and cough out blood. I was glad when I reached the doorstep of my house and fished out my keys from my pocket. I slipped it in and turned it before a familiar click automatically made my good palm rise and wrap around the doorknob. 

The darkness welcomed me. I never opened my curtains. Never. The lights, I could turn on but never the curtains. I dropped my hand at the consoling thought of being home. At least I was in my safe haven. I still had fear of being ambushed by flying bricks or stuff like that gnawing at the back of my mind. It had happened a lot. The reason for my stupid anxiety. My windows always paid for it and I had to get it replaced the next day. I did a lot of things myself. All I needed was the hardware store and convenience store.

I doused my injured hand with vodka, muffling the scream that threatened to escape my parched throat. "Fuck!" I cursed out loud while cradling my hand.

Looking at the cut with the kitchen light on, I scowled at how nasty and deep it was. I silently hoped it wouldn't swell or get infected. With the help of my right hand, I managed to sew the cut neatly and wrap it in a bandage.

When I was done, I threw my head back and shut my eyes, really hating my father for my current situation. "Hope you're happy now Dad!" I ground my teeth together so hard that I was threatened with a headache. 

I sighed deeply, raising my exhausted eyes to the halfway bottle of Vodka on the counter and snatched it quickly. I took a long swig and heaved out as the harsh liquid burned my throat and spread hotness in my belly. I was exhausted, both physically and mentally.

"Ah, sweet 'ole Vodka. What will I do without ya?"