Coincidences

Act XXIII

Not much changed after that incident. Rocky still acted prepotently, Tyrone fiddled with his belongings, minding his own business, and Zoey is about to lose it. She was hysterical; Rocky kept on breaking her boundaries, her comfort zone, her personal space. He wrapped his arm around her, kissed her every now and then on the mouth, and groped her chest and body. There was nothing Zoey can do, since resisting was futile, according to Rocky. Even if she slapped him, it would have no effect.

Mr. Reed tried to contact his guardian, but, either by email, phone, or a visit, no one accepted his call. He inform the problem to our parents, though. While, aside from the part that the Rimsons were in town, this was no shocking news to my dad. Linda Hudson, on the other hand, was outraged. She began to let Zoey stay home for a couple of days, but that wasn't an obstacle to the bully. He did his own research, in which consists on a plan to pick on her friends to the point where they couldn't take it anymore, mentally or physically. He stopped by their house regularly, and, although Mrs. Hudson politely rejected his stay, he'd still storm in and trash the house.

Since Zoey and I were neighbors, Rocky considered this as killing two birds with one stone. That idiom felt more literal than it could ever be. He helped himself to our food, meddled with my stuff, leaving my room in a mess; that retard thought that he was the king to everything.

One day, Mr. Reed gave us a visit, or, rather, let us visit him, over by his house. He's right; he did live nearby. His house was a few blocks away, about 0.31 miles north. It can be simply said as half a kilometer. It was closer to the centre. In fact, his home was clearly seen, when Zoey and I walked home on that rainy day.

Inside, the living room welcomed us with a scent of lemon, most probably coming from a hidden air freshener. Its look suited the owner's nature: the walls, the floor and the ceiling were made of spruce-like hardwood, the furniture became a counterpart of its surroundings, shining in a decent white. Contemporary was in harmony with classic; just like the good old chap, Jonathan, who wore a Clippers jersey under his americana. Imagine that.

"Go on, sit," he offered. He crashed to a beanie bag, and popped open a bottle of Coke, then pouring it into some glasses. "Help yourself with drinks," he said , with courtesy.

As soon as we made ourselves settle down, Mr. Reed toned down into a serious aura. He clapped his hands together and announced, "So, what can we do to deal with Rocky Rimson? Martin, may you please suggest some ways?"

I was unsure. I medidated on the facts I know, and tried to put things together. Most of my suggestions end up awry; in reality, it's hard to think of new methods to stop him.

"How about we..., no, that won't work, he made the warning slip into an origami, then threw it away to the bin last time. Why not..., no, that won't work either. Bribery only works for him, not for us."

"You're saying that most of the time, he get away with it?" said Jonathan, resting his chin on his arm. I nodded.

"Not even running away?" blurted Mrs. Hudson, desperate for a solution. I understand she's worried about her daughter. So am I.

I apologetically explained, "Unfortunely, he gets what he wants, either passively, or by force."

"For now, enough of that," interrupted Mr. Reed. "Martin, let's try to figure out what made him who he is now. Try to remember as hard as you can." He tapped his forehead. "It's all in your head."

But I don't want to. My trauma resides within those memories. I know it must have been around the time of the accident, 'cause he wasn't like this before that happened. For the sake of Zoey, though, I'll try. Ok, Mom dove into the path of the truck, saved a child, and then, that. I can't remember anything else. My sight of it was blurry.

Wait. I think I do remember a bit. Rocky was there; he was a fuzzy figure standing on the sidewalk. Although I can't tell much, I guess he was shaking in terror, the total opposite of who, or what, he is now.

"I think I got a bit," I announced. "I know that he changed after the accident, after he saw the full action. He was still, on the sidewalk. I don't know why he was there, though."

Good question. Why was he there? It happened near the park, so maybe we were playing. I dunno.

Mr. Reed scratched his head. "Not enough. Anyways, good job, Martin." He turned to Dad. "Mr. Turner, do you know anything about the Rimson family?"

Dad cleared his throat, "Well, the Rimson family has been a long-time acquiantance of ours. Ever since the kids met, they were unseparable. They hung out by the park, played similar videogames, talked about whatever kids like to talk about nowadays. Then, on the day my wife was involved in the car accident, the kids were on their way home. It must have been traumatizing for them. I wasn't there; I was at work and was only informed when she was already sent to the hospital." He took a deep breath.

"So, as far as we know, he was a good guy, then turned into a bad guy," he mouthed sarcastically. He took a sip from the cup and dumped another refill from the pitcher. "What are we gonna do?"

I ran out of ideas. The others had their brains turned off, too.

Luckily for Jonathan Axel Reed, as I eyed from the reports on the drawer next to the sofa, he had something to propose. He clapped in self-approval and said, convinced, "Been an ace on the subject of psychology, why not try this?" He pointed at Zoey and me, persuading, "Go talk to him as a friend, and you two act like nothing happened in the past."

The four of us were surprised. "What?!" said Zoey. "You mean, be friends with that guy?"

"It'll be an act of reverse psychology. If something did happen before, he must be holding grudges against you. Show him that none of that matters and welcome him; he'll think of you as his friend and stop treating you guys harshly."

"You have a point, but..." I muttered, not so sure about the decision.

"I don't literally mean the pun," he said sorry in advance. "But, it's do or die. Because, seriously, you can die, due to the punches he throws at you."

I have no clue if that was a warning or a joke, but I coldly replied, "Thanks for the advice."