The Wrath in His Eyes

Wrath.

Adam stalked down the street with his head down and his hollow eyes counting the cracks in the ground before he bumped into someone else.

So far the most he’d gotten to was 10.

Just then, when he almost counted nine, someone next to him ran into his shoulder. Whirling to see the small round man, Adam barred his teeth and let a small growl out of his throat. Upon seeing Adam, the stout man turned and ran as fast as his small legs could carry him. Turning back to his cracks, Adam started counting.

One for that time you left me at home…he thought, hoping somewhere his mother’s back was breaking over and over again.

Two for that time you hit me with the shovel…

Three for when you burned my notebooks…

Four for when you ripped up my bears…

Five for that time you left me with your boyfriend…

Six for when you ripped my notebooks…

Seven for when you threw my pictures away…

Eight for locking me in the car…

Nine for locking me in my room…

Ten for that time you strangled me with the phone…

Eleven for-WHACK. A shoulder to the face knocked him out of his thoughts. As the person kept pressing forward, Adam was thrust to the ground roughly. Leaping to his feet, Adam grabbed the tall man by the collar and spun him around angrily.

“What’s your problem?” Adam growled, suddenly looking into the muscular chest of a burly man at least two heads taller than him. “Look where you’re going!”

It’s not like Adam wasn’t a small man, 6’9 inches and in very good shape; not too muscular but not fat. His black hair flopped over his face, unkept and shaggy, but now he could clearly see the tall man leering down at him like a lion to a zebra. The man’s short brown hair stuck straight up like it too was a weapon like his huge fists that could wrap around Adam’s neck at least twice. His hands were only the beginning of the man’s weapon that was his body. The gangly arms that were attached to his broad shoulders bulged with huge muscles could’ve matched any crowbar, as with his legs. He knew he’d be chicken liver before too long, but something inside Adam told him to stand up and fight, fight like you had to when Mama was drinking again. Fight like you had to when her boyfriends would beat you in the street. Fight like you would when the gangs at school and on the street would bring bats and crowbars down on your head.

“You watch where you’re going, shrimp,” the man rumbled, his knuckles crackling as he curled them up into fists. 

“You’re the one who knocked into me!” Adam shouted back. By now other pedestrians stopped and stared at the scrawny, crazy, 21-year-old kid against the hulk-of-a 27-year-old man. 

“Maybe I don’t like the way you look,” he retorted, pulling up a fist. By the time he let it go; Adam had ducked and thrust his legs out only to receive a shockwave that traveled from the tips of his toes to his brain. The other man picked Adam up by the foot, shaking the small man in front of his face. “Or maybe it’s your shoes.

“Let me go!” Adam shouted, kicking the man’s leg over and over again. He did so, letting Adam crash harshly to the ground. Springing quickly to his feet, Adam brought his fists in front of his face and glared at the burly man and dropping his backpack.

 

“The shrimp’s got some fight in him!” He laughed, jabbing a fist into Adam’s face before he could duck, sending him back and almost into the street. Adam’s face, now red with anger, turned into an evil scowl. Returning to his fighting stance, he stalked toward the man with hate in his eyes. The man stopped laughing at his expression and threw another fist at him. Adam dodged with ease, shifting his weight to this right and ducking. The man threw punch after punch, but, driven by anger, Adam dodged them all. Finally, when he was close enough to connect with one long arm, Adam thrust his arm out and connected with the man’s ribs. Instead of shaking with horrible pain, Adam dragged his arm back around to hit the man again with his right fist. The man staggered back, shock written in invisible bold letters across his face. Adam kept hitting him as hard as he could over and over.

One for that time you left me at home…

Two for that time you hit me with the shovel…

Three for when you burned my notebooks…

Four for when you ripped up my bears…

Five for that time you left me with your boyfriend…

Six for when you ripped my notebooks…

Seven for when you threw my pictures away…

Eight for locking me in the car…

Nine for locking me in my room…

Ten for that time you strangled me with the phone…

The man suddenly slammed into a wall, blood gushing out of his mouth and nose. Crazed with anger, Adam only saw his mother standing in front of him. Rearing back one last time, Adam let loose one last, powerful shot to the right jaw, successfully breaking his neck and killing the man.  Slowly, the man sagged to the ground, his eyes unseeing and his mouth dripping with blood.  Adam turned sharply on his heel, picked up his backpack, and stalked away, cracking his knuckles despite the gawking pedestrians and ambulance sirens.

Eleven for when you killed yourself, he thought bitterly.

Author's Note

Meh. Fight.