Chapter 2

word count: 696

The damned clock banged louder and louder in his head matching the racket of the ridiculous drama in the other room. His pulse raced...the story of his life, always waiting for the coast to be clear. Lurking in the shadows, hoping not to be noticed. It seemed like he spent more time in this surreal world than anywhere else. Survival.

Finally, it ended. A door slam, and mother-bitch's footfalls on the staircase announced the all clear. He stormed to the living room and out.

The interlude, that time in between the chaos of one place before the next big uproar...one would think the quiet morning would bring peace. But today his mind was fighting to put out a vicious eruption. His mother didn't love him. He knew it, she knew it. He was a man and that made him bad. He shifted his backpack higher up on his shoulder and fought the emptiness inside. She called him nothing, worthless shit.

He could run away, blow this town and not look back. But supporting himself, having a job, money to buy food, a place to live...that was a stretch...he couldn't wrap his head around that shit. So here he was.

And in the here and now, today, classes loomed. A glance to his watch revealed he had three minutes to get there. So what if he was late? He was nothing anyway. Shit personified.

He didn't make it, sauntering into the classroom five minutes late. Mr. Roberts, his home room teacher, didn't look happy. It was surprising the stern expression on his bearded face didn't steam his glasses with all the heat. Elliot smirked and took his seat without speaking.

"Elliot, you're late!"

"So?"

"I'll see you here for detention at 3:00."

"Whatever!"

Mr. Roberts stiffened, glaring his way. "I beg your pardon!"

"I said I'd see you at three!" Elliot said the words slowly, punching out each syllable with venom.

"That's better." It came out limp and weary. The teacher pulled back. If anyone were looking he might note Mr. Robert's hand trembling slightly.

Perhaps his instincts detected the knife in Elliot's pocket. He stroked it now, gliding his hand into his jacket pocket, the inside pocket close to his heart. The metal cooled his fingers as he caressed it, smooth, that tantalizing edge that could cut and bleed. His heart raced a little.

The bell rang, the cattle call began. Kids raced to the door, queuing up at the exit. Elliot lagged behind and was the last to go. He watched the others. Conversations and laughter filled the hallway. Good friends chatted. Lovers joined hands.

I guess they are all people who count, people who are loved. He pondered the thought twisting it up into a sarcastic knot he'd like to squeeze tight until it choked, sucking the life out of it.

"Get out of the way!" Someone pushed him from behind, not a gentle shove, but a full blown assault that smacked hard, making his shoulders hurt. He turned to see his nemesis, Jack Bowen. Jack and his minions roamed the halls, always looking for trouble, looking for the weak and unloved. Elliot knew he had a target sign on his forehead. Jack considered Elliot a good victim, an idiot who mouthed off now and then, but was basically a punk. He started now with his song and dance.

"Elliot, your little fuck, get out of my way before I squash you like a stink bug." His cohorts let out a roar of laughter that rippled through the hallway, bouncing off the walls for a repeat assault in echoes that would not stop.

Elliot felt his face get hot. He was flushed with humiliation which was embarrassing in itself. What kind of a man blushes with embarrassment. He stood frozen. He was paralyzed, a witless victim.

"Little shit!" Jack added, next raising a hand to lead to his tribe onward. They moved on in perfect step with one another, looking like a machine, like a tank lumbering across a war zone.

"A war zone...that's what this is," Elliot murmured, stroking the knife again. "It's a fucking war zone."