In our last interaction, I lost a rib 'cause I'm out of practice
There is a fight going on in a Chicago alley.
It's a group of bigger boys beating up on a younger one, and although some of the older kids appear to have been hit a few times, the fight's pretty much over at this point.
"You stupid fuck," one of the boys shouts, spitting blood on the younger boy, who is curled up into a ball, hands protecting his head as he gets kicked, once, twice, three times.
Leon Warner is going to regret this in the morning. Well, probably not. He's more likely to regret this when he goes home and his foster parents see him, and he's really going to regret this when they call his social worker and she chews him out for getting in another fight.
When the kicking stops, he remains motionless on the ground, feeling his heartbeat as blood races through his body, pooling in the areas where he's been hit the hardest. He can feel the adrenaline fading away, and when it's clear the other boys have left, he sits up weakly, taking a minute to let the world spin before he stands up fully and moves unsteadily towards a bus bench. He collapses more than sits down, wiping some blood off of his chin--that's white blood. Angel blood. His knuckles are throbbing--everything is throbbing, but that's what he gets for picking fights with small gangs.
There may or may not be the tiniest of smiles playing on his lips as he lowers his head between his knees, staring intently at the ground. It was a good fight, for all that he lost. Now he just has to get somewhere to wash off and then go home. Maybe his class schedule will have arrived when he gets back, and he can figure out just who he has to deal with this year.
So there you go, Chicago. There's a bleeding teenage angel sitting at a bus stop--have at, as they say.
It's a group of bigger boys beating up on a younger one, and although some of the older kids appear to have been hit a few times, the fight's pretty much over at this point.
"You stupid fuck," one of the boys shouts, spitting blood on the younger boy, who is curled up into a ball, hands protecting his head as he gets kicked, once, twice, three times.
Leon Warner is going to regret this in the morning. Well, probably not. He's more likely to regret this when he goes home and his foster parents see him, and he's really going to regret this when they call his social worker and she chews him out for getting in another fight.
When the kicking stops, he remains motionless on the ground, feeling his heartbeat as blood races through his body, pooling in the areas where he's been hit the hardest. He can feel the adrenaline fading away, and when it's clear the other boys have left, he sits up weakly, taking a minute to let the world spin before he stands up fully and moves unsteadily towards a bus bench. He collapses more than sits down, wiping some blood off of his chin--that's white blood. Angel blood. His knuckles are throbbing--everything is throbbing, but that's what he gets for picking fights with small gangs.
There may or may not be the tiniest of smiles playing on his lips as he lowers his head between his knees, staring intently at the ground. It was a good fight, for all that he lost. Now he just has to get somewhere to wash off and then go home. Maybe his class schedule will have arrived when he gets back, and he can figure out just who he has to deal with this year.
So there you go, Chicago. There's a bleeding teenage angel sitting at a bus stop--have at, as they say.