Knockout Boys

Chapter 6: Trash

Paul's expression was that of a hunter, and his pack wore similar expressions. Paul fought like he played football, by pushing and shoving, I thought to myself, as he slammed me off the bus stop bench. He was only a freshman, but he was tall and sturdy, with the body of a linebacker. He kicked me in the belly, and my body curled up like a disturbed millipede. I swallowed down bile.

Usually, Paul struck me where he wouldn't leave marks, in places such as my stomach or chest. But when he was really angry – like he seemed today – all bets were off. I wrapped my head in my arms to protect it from whatever came next. With all the abuse I had taken this week, I couldn't risk getting a concussion.

Paul's knee on my chest pinned me in place. "Look at me when I'm talking to you, freak!" he barked, yanking my hair. I slowly opened my eyes to see his hateful glare. My heart pounded hard in my chest. I felt trapped in one of those terrible nightmares where your family transform into monsters, and you can't escape. You're stuck, running in place.

Paul twisted my hair, making me cry out. "Call off the barbecue," he snarled, baring his teeth. Such nice, white teeth. "You think I'm going to hang out with you, you filthy faggot?"

"I tried," I whimpered helplessly. "My mom wouldn't listen." My face crumpled.

"Then make her," he spat on me.

"Paul, chill out," his smallest friend mumbled, shifting uncomfortably. "Kid said he tried."

Paul turned on them. "You taking his side?" he demanded. "You his boyfriend?"

His rage made the guy shrivel. "N-no, I'm just saying. Don't take it too far."

Paul snorted. "Fine," he said and let go of my hair roughly, so my head banged against the sidewalk. "You're a coward, Rocky," he sneered. "You hide behind bigger men because you're not a man." My heart ached. He was right. I was nothing without people like Kevin. Tears rolled out the corners of my eyes.

"Weakling," Paul said what I was thinking, what I had known deep in my bones. Kevin was fighting a losing battle. No one could make a fighter out of me. "You're pathetic," he went on. "I heard you've been fucking Psycho Retard."

"Kevin?" Is that what they called him?

Paul bunched up my shirt in his hand. "Yeah. Him." His brow wrinkled. "You know," he smirked cruelly, "you're nothing but a warm body to him."

"You're wrong," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. Paul struck me across the face. I tasted metallic fluid.

"Do you take it up the ass for him?" Paul accused, hitting me. When Paul hit me it was more painful than anything. I could feel the bruises bloom along my cheek, little bite marks of hate. "He doesn't care for you. You're nothing. You're temporary. Worthless trash."

"Stop," I blubbered.

Paul turned my head to the side roughly. "Looks like he beat you. I told you he hates you," said Paul triumphantly. "Unless you like it rough." He smirked. "Does this turn you on, pervert?" he demanded, striking me. "You like this?"

"No." My voice cracked. "You're h-hurting me."

"My God, Paul!" his friend yelled, aghast, pulling him off. Paul pushed him down easily.

"Stay out of this!" he hissed. "Men," he ordered to his football buddies, some who looked uncertain, others downright scared. "Take out the trash." They dragged my by my underarms away from Paul, who was staring at his feet and breathing heavily.

"Sorry," one of them muttered to me. Then they hoisted me up, by arms and feet, like a lamb for slaughter. I heard the shrill shriek of metal against metal. I heard a thud, turned to see a dumpster lid. They shoved me in there, with the rest of the school's smelly trash. The sunlight disappeared when they pushed back the lid.