Unsunken

PART 4: Rising

PART 4: RISING

When Michael returned to the apartment Mr. John sat casually in front of the TV, watching two white boys on dirt bikes speed down a hill made of mud. An enthusiastic man narrated their movements and Mr. John leaned forward in his seat, entranced by the race. Michael had never seen Mr. John smile in the weeks he'd lived with him, and couldn't understand why this race was the cause of its underwhelming debut. Michael didn't dwell on it for long. He tiptoed into the apartment, praying that Mr. John's attention would remain on the TV.

Michael had only just reached the kitchen when Mr. John turned around. "Drop the bags on the counter," He grumbled.

Michael obliged quickly, desperate to remove himself from Mr. Johns gaze and return safely to the storage closet where sleep and warm dreams awaited him. "The change is on the table," He whispered. He'd almost made it through the corridor when Mr. John's voice boomed behind him. "Where's the receipt?"

Michael froze.

"What, are you retarded too? I said where is the receipt." Mr. John's heavy feet thudded against the wooden floors as he approached Michael with dark, narrow eyes. Beer spilled from the can in his right hand and Mr. John brought his voice down to a low and menacing growl. "I won't ask you again."

Anger filled Michael's rigid body and he bit his lip to keep from screaming. He didn't understand what the world wanted from him. It had robbed him of everything he loved and thought he knew and still it reached through Mr. John for more. Michael felt the tingling sensation of cold water rising from his feet and when he closed his eyes he saw Andrew sailing a wooden boat in the distance, floating down an endless stream in the opposite direction. His smile was gone and in its place was a blank, lifeless expression. In an instant Michael returned to reality, unfolded his fingers, and revealed the receipt with nothing left to lose.

Mr. John snatched to paper from Michael's hand and scanned the front. He let out a slighting snort when he read Andrew's note. "'Don't forget about me'" He mimicked. "So what, you've got a little boyfriend now?"

Michael kept his eyes on the floor and clenched his fists into tight balls.

"Would you look at that. A grocer and an orphan, two faggots sitting in a tree." Mr. John threw his beer can against the floor, his belly shaking with laughter. "And look at your shoes! Jesus fucking Christ. That's fucking hilarious." He sobered quickly, serious again. "Pick up that can, boy."

Michael waited for the bones of his knuckles to burst from his skin. He waited for his lungs to give out right then and there, but they didn't. Life was not kind enough to show him mercy. Michael stared into the deep blue of Mr. John's challenging eyes with no fight left and allowed them to pull him underwater. He bent down slowly.

"Can't you move any faster?" Mr. John pushed Michael's head downward with a beefy hand and spit at him. "Pick it up you filthy faggot."

Michael gasped for air and just as his fingertips brushed the metal of the can he heard his mothers whisper, "Stand." Her voice grew louder into pleading cry."Stand!"

Michael felt something very small snap inside of him. A bigger, emphatic object moved to take its place.

"If you know what's good for you-you'll pick up that can and get out of my sight." Mr. John raised his right hand in a manner meant to be threatening, but Michael didn't budge. He pushed hard against Mr. John with both arms, staring into the blue as he rose to a standing position. His fist flew through the air and landed roughly against the grimy stubble of Mr. John's cheek. Mr. John staggered backward with an open mouth but in seconds Michael was on top of him, punching and kicking with everything he had left and when he finally stopped, Mr. John lay sprawled along the floor, coughing blood as he tried to speak.