Post by Seraphim on Jul 18, 2006 15:12:00 GMT 12
[Seraphim, 12 or so. Expansion on history. Probably not the last.]
“You look like you’ve been run through a meat grinder,” Sophek pointed out, squatting on the window sill, two stories above the ground.
“You should see the meat grinder,” Seraphim murmured, pulling his fingers away from the bruise around his eye. He turned to the chest of drawers, searching for a shirt.
“Gee, you write that one?”
Seraphim muttered, trying to pull on a shirt but struggling to get his stiff right arm through. Sophek examined the new layer of bruises, flinching.
“You sock him back?” Sophek asked when Seraphim didn’t reply.
Seraphim pulled the shirt over his head, his voice muffled by the dark fabric. “Yeah.”
“Maacha okay?”
“Yeah.”
Sophek slipped into the room, watching Seraphim warily, but his friend only sat down on the bed and dragged heavy boots from underneath, pulling them on.
“You’d think he’d have learnt to hit you where the bruises wouldn’t show,” Sophek said quietly. Seraphim grunted and finished lacing up one of the black boots. Sophek pointedly didn’t say anything about the Band-Aids on Seraph’s fingers, knowing they hid burns from the fire crackling in a large jar on his desk. Those weren’t accidents, any more than the somewhat frayed, singed edges of the thick black jacket Seraphim shrugged on were.
“You grocery shopping yesterday?”
“M’hmm.”
“You had to take Maacha to the doctor yesterday, alright? Oh, right, and there's a History test Monday. ”
“Thanks for covering, Sophek.”
Sophek shrugged and turned back to the windowsill, grabbing his schoolbag off the ledge and rummaging through it. He pulled out a sheath of papers and tossed them onto the desk, careful to avoid knocking over the lidless jar.
Seraphim spread the papers over the desk, his hands spread on the surface as he scanned the sheets. The alarm clock rang, warning him that five thirty was approaching. It was still dark outside, the gray dawn spreading over the city too slowly. Seraphim didn’t look up from the papers as he hit the sleep button, silencing the machine.
“Did Cassandra take notes on Alexander?” he asked, looking up from the paper.
“Yeah, said she’d bring them tomorrow.”
Seraphim nodded and rolled his shoulder absently, opening a drawer and flicking the false bottom out. A black-handled switchblade glittered in the corner, sharing the space with Seraphim’s Mother’s stolen wallet, a book of matches and a few chips of fire brick.
Putting the knife in his pocket, Seraphim followed Sophek to the window. The Asian swung out, sliding down the drain pipe. Seraphim went after him a few moments later, and the two figures disappeared into the gathering morning.
Seraphim swerved, sidestepping. His opponent’s blade passed a few inches from his side, but then he was moving again, his own switch dancing in the slowly growing luminance of the morning. Sophek was beside him, long flickblade catching the sunlight. They fought side by side, Casandra’s lithe body behind them, Damascus next to her, covering their backs. They were surrounded, but they weren’t outnumbered. Although their opponents were slightly larger and broader across the shoulders, both Cassandra and Seraphim were easily as tall as the older students.
“Dad is going to kill me,” Cassandra grunted, catching a blade on the thick sweater wrapped around her arm, deflecting it away as she kicked the bearer in the groin, putting him out of the fight. “I told him I was helping you guys with your homework.”
“You think any of us told our parents we were going to a rumble?” Damascus snapped, a short, dark boy in a silver-studded black jacket, his nails lacquered the same color.
Sophek grunted as a fist found his throat, but then Seraphim had kicked the other boy’s attacker away, embedding a knife somewhere in the teenager’s arm. The attacker stumbled away, and Damascus drop-kicked the jock who had pointed his blade at Seraphim’s back. Cassandra examined the last of the attackers, lowering her arm and making a show of checking the blood stains on her white trench coat. He turned and fled, shouting abuse at them as he ran.
“Game, set,” Sophek murmured thickly, spitting out bloody phlegm.
“Match,” Seraphim finished, flourishing one and bending to strike it on his shoe.
Sophek tugged the hood of his hoodie straight, and the four of them deserted the alleyway, Seraphim trailing behind as he lit up a pair of cigarettes. The streets were more active now, but it was a Saturday and no one wanted to be up this early. Nobody commented on four children emerging from an alley, tucking away switchblades and lighting cigarettes they were too young to smoke. Damascus took one of the smokes, steam mingling with smoke in the morning air.
“So what’d you do to get these guys on your case, anyway, Cassandra?” He asked, smoke breathing from his nose.
“Kicked one of them in the balls for leering at me,” she replied easily, taking the cigarette he offered and taking a long pull.
“Sure,” Seraphim muttered.
“What do you think?” She asked, and a smile twitched across Seraphim’s face for a moment as he ducked to whisper in her ear. Her eyes widened and she made to hit him, only he slid out of the way.
“What? What, no! Man, Seraphim, you are crazy-ass. Your step-daddy hit you too hard?”
Seraphim showed his teeth in what only someone who didn’t know him could mistake for a smile. Sophek patted his shoulder absently, passing back one of the cigarettes.
“You look like you’ve been run through a meat grinder,” Sophek pointed out, squatting on the window sill, two stories above the ground.
“You should see the meat grinder,” Seraphim murmured, pulling his fingers away from the bruise around his eye. He turned to the chest of drawers, searching for a shirt.
“Gee, you write that one?”
Seraphim muttered, trying to pull on a shirt but struggling to get his stiff right arm through. Sophek examined the new layer of bruises, flinching.
“You sock him back?” Sophek asked when Seraphim didn’t reply.
Seraphim pulled the shirt over his head, his voice muffled by the dark fabric. “Yeah.”
“Maacha okay?”
“Yeah.”
Sophek slipped into the room, watching Seraphim warily, but his friend only sat down on the bed and dragged heavy boots from underneath, pulling them on.
“You’d think he’d have learnt to hit you where the bruises wouldn’t show,” Sophek said quietly. Seraphim grunted and finished lacing up one of the black boots. Sophek pointedly didn’t say anything about the Band-Aids on Seraph’s fingers, knowing they hid burns from the fire crackling in a large jar on his desk. Those weren’t accidents, any more than the somewhat frayed, singed edges of the thick black jacket Seraphim shrugged on were.
“You grocery shopping yesterday?”
“M’hmm.”
“You had to take Maacha to the doctor yesterday, alright? Oh, right, and there's a History test Monday. ”
“Thanks for covering, Sophek.”
Sophek shrugged and turned back to the windowsill, grabbing his schoolbag off the ledge and rummaging through it. He pulled out a sheath of papers and tossed them onto the desk, careful to avoid knocking over the lidless jar.
Seraphim spread the papers over the desk, his hands spread on the surface as he scanned the sheets. The alarm clock rang, warning him that five thirty was approaching. It was still dark outside, the gray dawn spreading over the city too slowly. Seraphim didn’t look up from the papers as he hit the sleep button, silencing the machine.
“Did Cassandra take notes on Alexander?” he asked, looking up from the paper.
“Yeah, said she’d bring them tomorrow.”
Seraphim nodded and rolled his shoulder absently, opening a drawer and flicking the false bottom out. A black-handled switchblade glittered in the corner, sharing the space with Seraphim’s Mother’s stolen wallet, a book of matches and a few chips of fire brick.
Putting the knife in his pocket, Seraphim followed Sophek to the window. The Asian swung out, sliding down the drain pipe. Seraphim went after him a few moments later, and the two figures disappeared into the gathering morning.
Seraphim swerved, sidestepping. His opponent’s blade passed a few inches from his side, but then he was moving again, his own switch dancing in the slowly growing luminance of the morning. Sophek was beside him, long flickblade catching the sunlight. They fought side by side, Casandra’s lithe body behind them, Damascus next to her, covering their backs. They were surrounded, but they weren’t outnumbered. Although their opponents were slightly larger and broader across the shoulders, both Cassandra and Seraphim were easily as tall as the older students.
“Dad is going to kill me,” Cassandra grunted, catching a blade on the thick sweater wrapped around her arm, deflecting it away as she kicked the bearer in the groin, putting him out of the fight. “I told him I was helping you guys with your homework.”
“You think any of us told our parents we were going to a rumble?” Damascus snapped, a short, dark boy in a silver-studded black jacket, his nails lacquered the same color.
Sophek grunted as a fist found his throat, but then Seraphim had kicked the other boy’s attacker away, embedding a knife somewhere in the teenager’s arm. The attacker stumbled away, and Damascus drop-kicked the jock who had pointed his blade at Seraphim’s back. Cassandra examined the last of the attackers, lowering her arm and making a show of checking the blood stains on her white trench coat. He turned and fled, shouting abuse at them as he ran.
“Game, set,” Sophek murmured thickly, spitting out bloody phlegm.
“Match,” Seraphim finished, flourishing one and bending to strike it on his shoe.
Sophek tugged the hood of his hoodie straight, and the four of them deserted the alleyway, Seraphim trailing behind as he lit up a pair of cigarettes. The streets were more active now, but it was a Saturday and no one wanted to be up this early. Nobody commented on four children emerging from an alley, tucking away switchblades and lighting cigarettes they were too young to smoke. Damascus took one of the smokes, steam mingling with smoke in the morning air.
“So what’d you do to get these guys on your case, anyway, Cassandra?” He asked, smoke breathing from his nose.
“Kicked one of them in the balls for leering at me,” she replied easily, taking the cigarette he offered and taking a long pull.
“Sure,” Seraphim muttered.
“What do you think?” She asked, and a smile twitched across Seraphim’s face for a moment as he ducked to whisper in her ear. Her eyes widened and she made to hit him, only he slid out of the way.
“What? What, no! Man, Seraphim, you are crazy-ass. Your step-daddy hit you too hard?”
Seraphim showed his teeth in what only someone who didn’t know him could mistake for a smile. Sophek patted his shoulder absently, passing back one of the cigarettes.