Good PatRiot (boyxboy)

Victim One

"Wh-What do you want dude?" the man yelled frantically, crawling desperately to get away.

The "dude" in question had come out of absolutely fucking nowhere and started beating the living shit out of him. He bet he had some fractured ribs. And his nose. Yeah. Definitely broken. Blood was flowing freely from it and every once and a while he would get a taste of the revolting metallic liquid as it seeped its way into his mouth.

The guy laughed. He laughed. And it wasn't one of those sardonic chuckles that people were so fond of using when they found absolutely no humor in their situation. It was an honest to goodness laugh. Sounded like the guy was enjoying himself. Like there was nothing he enjoyed more than beating somebody to a bloody pulp. And as he looked into those eyes that sparkled with absolute mirth he knew he was a fucking dead man.

The guy lunged.

"Shit," he cried scrambling across the mulch. Pieces of the chipped wood stuck in his hands as he fumbled to get distance between himself and his attacker. He remembered how he would make a fuss whenever he got a splinter playing here as a kid. But the little slivers of wood seemed trivial when put against his other injuries.

It hurt so fucking much.

Breathing had never been so painful.

He had thought the evening perfect to spend time in the park. He loved to walk along the path that wove around the perimeter of the recreational area watching as friends and families took advantage of the play area and grills.

When they left as the sun started setting he stayed, content to rest in the semi-wet grass and watch the stars. It was a beautiful night for stargazing new moon and clear as he had ever seen. And there was hardly any light pollution. Every once in a while he saw a satellite whizzing by. It was during the stargazing that his world was eclipsed by the figure of the man who was making him regret his decision to watch the stars.

Really regret it.

The man kicked him in the side. Hard.

He dimly wondered if this is what it felt like to be hit by a train. Probably not. Those people were lucky enough to die when they were struck. A quick pain and then oblivion. This guy had been playing with him slowly for the last hour.

He was tired of it. So very tired. He took a shallow breath that ended with a hiss as his ribs protested the effort and decided he would beg. Beg the guy to leave him alone.

"I'll give you all of my money. Please! Please! Anything to make it stop," his voice broke at the end and was overtaken by hiccupping sobs.

The desperate attempt sparked nothing but annoyance on the hooded countenance of his attacker.

"Zabien, Zabien,' the man drawled almost lazily, "I don't want your money," he said this as if it were common knowledge he had to explain carefully to an unusually slow-witted individual. An individual that should have known exactly why he was there.

The guy reached into his leather coat and Zabien feared the worst. He was obviously going for some kind of weapon. Zabien's heart hammered in his chest. This was it. The guy was really going to kill him. Finding what he was looking for the man pulled out his weapon.

Zabien almost cried in relief. It was a water bottle. Nothing bad ever came from a water bottle. He briefly wondered if he was on some kind of fucked up new reality show that was a cross between Scare Tactics and Dog Eat Dog.

He watched as the man unscrewed the lid of the bottle and half expected the guy to take a drink. But no. The bottle was lobbed right at the kid.

Direct hit.