The Barehanded Defender

The boy’s fist felt like a ton of bricks packaged together with razor blades inside an old, heavy bag made of chain. Just a minute ago, the only blemishes on my face were those of sweat and raindrops. My face was now streaked with dark crimson ribbons of blood. My vision was clouded. The man standing directly in front of me, dressed in dirty jeans and an old Misfits shirt, was breathing heavily as he shook his hand in pain. It made me want to laugh to think how silly this boy looked, a dark skinned, spiky haired “punk”, he was dressed in uniform with the rest of his fellow “unique individuals”. The biggest contradiction in my small world.
I looked down at my own shirt, a simple dark burgundy shirt with the image of a falcons head on the front. Blood now formed a splatter on the silver falcon’s beak. It looked too fitting for a bird of its type, the blood on its beak. My own pair of jeans, snugly fitting to my lean body, was being torn at the knees by the constant falls to the ground during this little scuffle. Ah, I thought, what a relief that I won’t have to go through the process of ripping these. The mop of brown hair over my head was busily shifting itself over my eyes. I ignored this.
In a blind fit of rage, I rushed at the boy and slammed him against a chain-link fence. I grunted. His knee dug into my side. I held him by the chest with one hand and drove my own fist into his gut. Once, twice, three times. He let out a gasp; the last blow had struck him in the solar plexus, how beautiful his blood-filled voice sounded to my ears. I helped his descent to the rocky, uneven pavement with a gorilla’s throw to the ground.
“Stop that right now!”
What a beautiful voice that was. It filled me with thoughts of lavender and roses. The voice was a bee’s hive filled with the finest brown sugar. The sight of the woman approaching us was god-sent, a pure elixir to the eyes. She had a statuesque, hourglass body, clothed in a light beige form fitting suit which complemented her tan colored skin. Her face was fine and narrow. Slightly plump, vaguely dyed lips formed a cold scowl which only enhanced this woman’s beauty. Her dark, brown, wavy, shoulder length hair was held back from her face by two nondescript barrettes at the sides of her head, right over her stud-pierced ears.
The distraction proved to be enough for the little miscreant at my feet to land a cold fist to my already bleeding left cheek. I fell to the ground, feeling the cold wind against my many cuts. When my head hit the ground, it was the strength of a thousand tsunami waves crashing against me. My vision became a complete scarlet curtain. Slowly, I became less and less aware of my surroundings. The heavens and earth were melting into each other in a great flurry of color. I heard faint, muffled voices. Were they calling my name? Were they begging for the young assailant to cease? Or were they simply ordering for space to be given us?
Darkness fell over me.
When I opened my eyes, I was in an aqua colored room with various diagrams of the human body pinned to its walls. The sterile smell that is customary to rooms like this was mixed with the smell of trashy perfume that older women seem to love so much. The fluorescent light coming from the ceiling penetrated my eyes like long, sharp needles. The groans of some younger child in the cot next to mine evoked images of bullfrogs in the rain.
I rolled over and sat up, legs planted on the cold floor. I held my hands to my head and noticed that my head was covered in a long, wide strip of cloth bandage. I slouched over, my elbows on my knees, my forehead on the back of my hands, and took a deep breath. I was relieved that the whole ordeal had run its course and that I was no longer in the open with that brat monster.
“Damn, that fucker can throw a punch.” I whispered to myself.
The distant clicking of heels in the hallway roused me from my short rest. In an instant, the same woman who had put an end to our struggle walked through the doorway, stopped and stared at me with deep, comforting eyes hidden behind a pair of narrow, thinly framed spectacles. She shook her head, making the curls at the side of her head to bounce and play with the surrounding air. She let out a sigh as she walked towards me. When she was a foot away from my sitting place, she took up a chair and sat down, crossing her smooth legs.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” She asked me with an incomparable kindness in her voice
I didn’t say anything.
“Mr. Isaac,” she said with great authority, “would you tell me what it is that happened?”
“I didn’t start it, if that’s what you want to hear.” I said, and then continued, “I was just walking from the bathroom towards where my friends were. I passed by where that asshole Kevin was and heard that he was cussing someone out. I looked and saw that he was severely insulting that girl, Andrea. Usually, I don’t care what anyone does to anyone else. This, though, was special.”
“Why was this special? Is this girl, Andrea was it, a friend of yours?” She interrupted
I smiled and said: “No, nothing like that. I only hold her in very high esteem, Ms. Robinson.”
How to describe Andrea? At first sight, she may look like your average skater/punk chick with neon eye shadow. But really, when you combine her feline eyes and thin, protruding mouth and her slender, pointed nose, you get a face comparable only to the most beautiful of angels. Her walk is that of a lion slowly creeping up on its prey, ready to lunge at any given moment. Her raven colored hair, hung down to her mid back, framed her face and did nothing less than enhance her preternatural beauty. Her voice, a little rough around the edges, was enough to make a grown man fall to his knees.
“So, what happened next?” Implored Ms. Robinson, the guidance counselor in charge of kids whose last names begin with A through C
“I did what I had to in order to make him shut his mouth. I punched the back of his head.”
“Right, because there was no other way to make him stop?”
“Exactly. He’s the kind of thick-headed guy who only responds to physical conflicts.” I explained, “He turned around began punching wildly in my direction. A couple of his punches hit me.”
“And then what happened?” She asked again
“Oh, I’m sure you saw the rest: Him punching my face, me taking him to the fence and pummeling his gut. Isn’t that when you called out for us to stop? Oh, yeah, the little bastard took a cheap shot too. And, I ended up here thanks to him.”
Ms. Robinson then got up off her seat with a warm smile and walked away, her voluptuous hips swaying to and fro. Come to think of it, Andrea and Ms. Robinson looked very much alike. Wasn’t Andrea’s last name Robinson? I never noticed this before. Not completely relevant anyways. I plopped myself backwards and stared at the ceiling, thinking of what the implications would be if those two women were related. That would mean Andrea would know about certain feelings I’ve been keeping hidden from her. Why had I told Ms. Robinson about all that?
Whatever happened next, I’m not too certain. All I know is that I’m now sitting in the FDR, which was an acronym for Falcon Disciplinary Room. That boy, Kevin, was in the same room, on the opposite side of it, to avoid problems.
“Five days?” I asked myself indignantly as I looked down at the pink piece of paper which told of the disciplinary action that was going to be taken.
I groaned and threw my head back.
“Oh well, it was worth it,” I murmured to myself when, all of a sudden, a swelling of pain assaulted my chest, “very, very worth it.”