juvenescence: tales of boyhood

Trophy

The day was partly cloudy, though the clouds always followed us, raining blows down upon us until we became numb, teaching us of the sinner’s loneliness, if we cared enough to learn. Most of the lessons of our teens were held tightly within clenched fists, of one type, or another.

They approached on the opposite side, five shadows, appearing as wolves clustered in a pack, creeping, stalking in rhythm. Small houses watched silently as we walked the wrong way on the one-way street. One of the boys said something to us from across the grayed pavement. It sounded innocent, but wolves are only innocent as pups, before they’ve fully grown a lust for the taste of blood. I told Scott, quietly, to keep walking. A steady stride might have carried us to safety. He didn’t, he stopped. Scott hadn’t the sense to stay away.

Words were exchanged, none of which mattered. This would only end one way. Now just feet apart, I looked at the one who was talking to me, his eyes betraying his true intention. He reached into my space, pointing at my silver chain, a worthless trinket, really. On it, hung a plain silver cross, dangling in shame. I’d no right to wear it. God, and similar hopeful notions, had no hold over me, or any of us.

The first blow came not from the front, as I had expected, but from my blind side. It was one of the others. The one in front then grabbed my long, brown hair, pulling my head down fast to meet his rising knee, which crashed into my face. There were more blows, each from a different direction, and then the boy in front, the leader, snatched the silver chain and cross from my neck. He had no interest in it, other than taking a piece of me, a victor’s trophy. Scott stood by, paralyzed with shock, useless, as always.

There’s always one in a group which is kept around with a bit of pity at the heart of the brotherhood, one who could never survive on their own, a known liability. That cloudy afternoon beating was his, but I took it for him, not the first, nor the last outnumbered beating I’d endure. The blood dries, the wounds heal. The lessons stay.