Hush

Jack: The human punching bag

A low chuckle from within his mind. No, not a chuckle, a cackle, lots of them. As though laughing at his death. Who were they though, these voices in his mind? Was it not enough for God to send bullies at him in his living state that he also sent them in his thoughts, and now even in his death. No, it wasn't God, God had forsaken him long ago. That's why this was happening, he had been sold to the Devil as a play thing, a punch bag.

The cackles grew louder, and Jack, seething in anger opened his eyes, ready to face whatever came at him again.

But when he opened his eyes the blinding white light surrounding him faded away and in its place was a playground full of children running and giggling. He must have mistaken their joyous laughs as sinister cackling. He watched as a group of children scattered away from each other in a game of what he knew to be called tag. He hadn't played that game since he was a kid. Though he cared nothing to think of his days playing such a meaningless game and anyway, it was always the slow, dorky fat kid they would pick to be 'it.' He was none of these, and then the need for glasses changed that, just like that, he found himself the new it among his so called friends.

The significance of the game being played before him was lost. It didn't matter what these brats were playing, he didn't know them. He rubbed at his neck, a tight sensation lingered from his last moments in life but he at least was no longer swinging from a noose.

He moved, but only in his mind, for his legs were motionless. And yet as his mind wandered, it took him places in his memories, as though in his final moments of death he was replaying flashes of random parts of his life.

The local fast food place he went with a new friend that he met at the library, who was caught by his mother and dragged away as she spoke in hushed tones telling the boy not to play with him, because he was better than that and he shouldn't ever trust black people.

The shopping market he frequented with his parents, the memory of his grandma's house and the smell of cinnamon and orange that lightly scented her home. All brief recollections of memories he had made in life, filling him mostly with love and joy. Once again he came to the understanding that he was dying, or had in fact already died and was reliving aspects of his life before the final judgement on his soul.

I want to see Mum and Dad

He thought to himself, meaning that he wished to go where they were. Though the very thought of them drove him in another direction, and he found himself outside that same house he refused to enter hours ago. He shook his head.

'I can't.' He admitted, feeling the same overwhelming sadness as before.

And just as quickly his mind reeled away from the home, and into a school class room. A familiar scene, a memory of the time not long after his 'friends' chose popularity over him, the dork with glasses.

Jack was sitting quietly working through an equation, the seats where his friends once sat beside him were empty, and a few seats behind him a group of friends sat whispering and giggling together, as at the opposite side of the class the teacher's back was turned and her attention was focused on their other friend who was acting as a distraction.

A spitball hit him in the back of his head and he rushed his hand over his buzz cut hair before glancing back with a frown. Atop his nose sat a pair of black rimmed glasses, a little large for his small round face but his mother had promised they were perfect. He thought so too when he realised how much better he could read. Until they drew attention to him from classmates, and repelled his two best friends to a different friendship group.

The kids behind him stuck their middle fingers up at him and one even made threatening gestures with their fists, promising pain at lunch. He watched as his younger spectacled self turned back to his classwork without a word and shook his head in disgust at how spineless he was back then, before he had found the streets. His eyes went back to the group of kids still laughing and throwing things at his back. More spitballs, gum, a broken pencil, a paper ball bounced on the desk and he watched as in his memory he stopped pretending to solve the equation and unfolded the paper ball. It had been blank, and more laughing from behind followed as a boy with brown hair got up and walked over to him, peering at the open paper ball before sneering at Jack.