by Bill Vincent
The Angry Fighter’s Story
The
Angry Fighter’s Story
Harness the Fire Within
Bill Vincent
Copyright © 2016. All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The opinions expressed by the author are not necessarily those of Revival Waves of Glory Books & Publishing.
Published by Revival Waves of Glory Books & Publishing
PO Box 596| Litchfield, Illinois 62056 USA
www.revivalwavesofgloryministries.com
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Book design Copyright © 2016 by Revival Waves of Glory Books & Publishing. All rights reserved.
Published in the United States of America
Paperback: 978-1684111510
Hardcover: 978-1684111527
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
About the Author
Recommended Books
Chapter One
In the Beginning
I
take the steps two at a time, these was as far as my legs could go. From behind me, I hear the sounds of hot pursuit and the piggish tones of Tom the nasty as we call him and the hoots that was the trademark of his gang. Heart pounding, I reach the top of the stairs and make a beeline for the stack of abandoned boxes in the hallway. They had been in use once and had fallen out of favour with the passage of time. They had been earmarked for disposal by the refuse truck when it came around and I guess no one had gotten around to moving them downstairs the zillion times since then that the truck had come around.
Trembling, I reach the relative safety of the boxes and squeezing through a small gap between it and the wall; I enter my safe place, a fortress, as I imagined it to be. To me, it was worth more than the lovely yellow flowers that sprout in spring or the tinkle that the ice makes as we play with it on ice days at the workshop. Although, it could not take the place of a warm plate of chocolate, steaming delicately on a wooden table with a spoon clutched between my fingers.
Oddly enough, that is a memory that comes from a cloudy past, a time before I came into the home for boys and…
Oh! My name is David Hunter. At least that is the name the matron told me I bore and her word is law around here. I guess she would have no reason to lie but I am aware, in fact, we are aware of the fact that she is a consummate liar. Over a thousand stories of legends exist (only a few really, only that they got bolder with each retelling), told by boys in hushed voices at night after lights out, tales finely woven with just enough yarn and garnished with enough childish fantasy to capture our imagination.
The city we were in I learnt was Chicago and that was what the older boys who knew about many things said it was called. This they claimed to have seen on a thing called a map. What that means, I have no idea.
In the truly miserable periods, when the older boys become nasty and seize my food, I often wonder where I came from. The matron says I had been dropped at the door of the home in a basket with soft blankets wrapped around me. Attached to it was an envelope, which said, “Please keep him safe, someone will come for him eventually.”
I was told that years ago and nobody ever came. Some of the boys were adopted some were claimed by their families and others were taken to states for a big sounding program or the other but no one ever came for me.
I was of a somewhat slight build through these years. Perhaps on the scrawnier side but this could have been because we rarely had enough to eat throughout the year except during the holidays and religious festivals when we got a lot of gifts and the state officials felt satiated enough to send the full allocation to the homes. I remember always being hungry. It became a normal part of my life, a gnawing emptiness that never filled and was perpetually awake.
Boys are troublesome enough without hunger being added to the equation and its presence sometimes made life at the home horrible. I got beat up a lot and had my food seized by ravenous tigers (older boys), ignored and not picked at games because I was too scrawny and was often compared to a plucked chicken by my mates.
We had loads of free time and we spent it on the streets of Chicago, at times with errands to run, most often without the permission and knowledge of the home staff of which we had three. Old Sam who was the security guard, janitor, handy man, workshop mentor and so many other jobs rolled into one. We had the Matron who was the general. She commands the house and wields the iron spoon, this apparatus was one she wielded with accuracy and we were all afraid of being on the receiving end of it as it delivered some nasty discipline and dished out pain in generous quantities. Lastly, there is Abe. She was the cook, laundry woman and teacher.
A face peers through a gap in the boxes at the edge of my vision and I barely register this, as I was deep in thought. There came whispers from around the pile of boxes and this gets my attention. I leap to my feet in fear with chills running down my spine.
“They have found me” I thought despairingly and attempt to flee before they discover the gap that was the way in. I squeezed against the wall and was cautiously sidling through the gap when a fist comes out of nowhere and grabs me by the scruff of the neck.
Terrified, I began to struggle and kick as hard as I could but the grip only tightens and I am dragged inexorably out of the gap to face the beating of a lifetime. I am beaten almost every day but this feels like it was going to be much worse.
It was.
I was pummelled badly. I opened my eyes to see a fist flying towards my face and from then on, it was a kaleidoscope of pain. Tom and his whole gang beat me gleefully. I had mixed some bird poo with my lunch and they mixed it with theirs after they seized it from me. What gave me away was the big grin on my face as I watched them gobble up with gusto, this and the fact that Mat, a member of the gang had once worked at a poultry and knew what bird poo smelled like.
They were very mad and immediately came for me.
Now, as I lie coiled into a ball on the floor, powerless and defenceless, as the blows descend on my body, blood pours from a gash in my brow from the buckle of a shoe as the after effect of a kick to the head. A slow burning starts in my heart, a disgust at being unable to do a thing to protect myself coupled with the belief that the world is very unfair.
A sharp pain erupts suddenly in my stomach, as a kick somehow evades the defensive cover of my arms and connects solidly with the soft flesh of my tummy. The pain sprouts in a sharp rictus, rising in intensity until I convulse and cry out overwhelmed by the agony. The blows immediately stop at my cry and a voice cries out in a hushed voice, “What have we done?”
There is silence for a few moments and then another voice says, “I wasn’t here.”
The sound of running feet follows the voice and then like clockwork, the gang scatters all around me headed in different directions.
This is all I remember as the darkness closes in around me. It takes away the pain and I float into a comfort
ing emptiness.
Sunlight spills in through white curtained windows and its rays splash teasingly across the face of a brown haired boy, heavily bandaged and wearing a hospital gown.
I open my eyes to a brilliantly white room and it hurts to keep my eyes open just for a while. There is a woman sitting by the bed and before slipping back into the darkness, I catch a whisper, as it twirls slowly in my consciousness as I drift back down.
“You are going to be all right David; this I promise you.”
Chapter Two
T
he days quietly flit by and I get better in steady increments. I had been in a very bad state when I arrived at the hospital. The doctors had been quite horrified at the extent of bodily damage I had sustained during the assault and had rightly called the cops. As a result, the state sent investigators to the home for boys and their findings caused such a stir that the state caused all welfare homes for both the poor, orphans and every other special needs to be investigated and their accounts audited.
Skeletons began to emerge from musty cupboards and the scandal that literally hit the roof was one of the worst the state had ever had. Officials were demoted, some sacked out rightly and a host of others were transferred to new duty posts. I lay in the Intensive Care Unit all this while, unaware of the tornado my ordeal at the hands of a group of playground bullies had caused. According to the doctor’s report, I had three heavily bruised ribs, a swollen wrist joint, a mild concussion and an ankle sprain. My eyes were also almost swollen shut with bruises and I couldn’t see distinctly at all for the first few days.
It was on one of those days that I had woken up to my aunt’s presence. All I had perceived had been through the bandages my eyes were swaddled in. I had been slipping in and out of consciousness even back then, so all I could see was a ladylike figure in a white room. Her presence at my bedside soon became familiar to me and her arrival had a soothing effect on me. Instinctively, on a subliminal level, I recognized someone who genuinely cared for me and thought of me as family. This realization I can claim, was the singular factor to my speedy recovery. I was soon shifted from intravenous sustenance to a liquid diet, then a soft fibrous liquid diet and on schedules perhaps designed by the doctor, I was soon back on a relatively normal albeit very natural and more nutritious diet.
Soon it was time for the bandages to come off and I got to see my aunt fully for the first time. We share a marked similarity; she has brown hair like mine. However, hers is of a slightly deeper shade. She has dimples and a beautiful smile. Overall, I would call her a pretty woman based on my short life experience and the fantasy of stories told by boys.
I was discharged soon after and released into the custody of my aunt who had staked her claim with the state department. Now, I sit on the couch and my heart beats fiercely against my rib cages. My fists clenched tight and my knuckles stand out from the surrounding skin. They are white and trembling with the effort of trying to drill the ground with an iron rod. Teeth clenched, I fight valiantly and tether on the edge of a wide abyss of rage.
My first week at school had been going well and I had succeeded in staying below the radar, speaking only when addressed, being polite to teachers and everything was going smoothly.
On Thursday afternoon, it was the midday break and I headed towards the cafeteria when a voice sneered from behind me, “Hey newbie! Think you are too good to walk with us.”
I did not respond but quickened my step as the hallway suddenly seemed deserted and the nearest person to me was about to turn the corner into the cafeteria.
“Come on, slow down mate, we just want to talk.”
I never looked back until I reached the cafeteria and trudged to join the queue that was moving slowly. The anger I had assumed gone was back. It had risen with the fear coupled with the anxiety of being attacked again and the thought of going through the suffering I had been subjected to further fuelled the rage at being forced to cower and made to walk this path again. I finished my meal and went looking for them.
I never found them. I marched back to class and at the edges of my vision, I could see students giving me a little berth, I guess my expression must have been thunderous. Since I had not seen the faces of the guys who had challenged me, I could not really identify them and none of my classmates held my gaze till the end of that school day. I went home, irritable and angry.
The next day was Friday. I had been pressed and had obtained permission from the History teacher. He had been droning on for about 50 minutes and about half of the class were dozing on their seats. He was however unperturbed and continued his monologue about the third amendment or something (I stopped listening a while ago).
The hallways were deserted and the male toilets were down the hall. I snuck my hands into my pockets and strolled sedentarily. I wasn’t in a hurry to get back to class and could afford to dither a little bit before re-entering that atmosphere.
Halfway down the hall, hands seized me from behind and hauled me by the scruff of the neck through a door marked Staff Only, it was under repair. There I was dumped onto the floor. Looking up at my assailants, I see that they are jocks, all three of them sporting identical team jackets with their initials or nickname stencilled on the back.
There were high fives all around and they stand grinning down at me as one of them moves and leans down slightly, towards me.
“Pretty boy, we guess you’ve got enough time to talk now,” he quips.
With that, his cohorts burst into another round of laughter and the flood steadily builds up along my chest and up my throat.
When I did not give a response, another of them moves closer and smirking stretches his hand to prod me in the chest with a finger while looking back towards his friends. “Let’s see if he can talk…”
The world around me explodes and everything turns red. My anger flashes into rage and passes the breaking point. I grab his finger and twist it sharply. He yowls terribly in pain and I think I hear a creak from somewhere. Letting go of his hand, he scuttles back whimpering and I turn to face the others. A blow is headed towards my face. It seems to move too slowly and I have no problem sidestepping it. It misses and I reply with a fist to the guts. He loses his breath with a big whoosh and crumples to the ground, groaning weakly.
All fired up now, I turned to face the last one. As I approach, he raises his arms towards me in surrender and there is fear written all over his face. I stop, struck by the familiarity of his gesture and the teachers come running in.
So here I am.
I throw the iron rod away in disgust and walk back into the living room, there I pace the room restlessly. I am waiting for my aunt to get back from her meeting with the counsellor. The two teachers were coming in from a science conference they had attended, when the cry of pain had alarmed them. The fact that the sound came from an abandoned toilet under repairs doubled their fears.
A single glance told the story and while one takes the groaning boys to the infirmary, the other teacher takes the last one and I to the Counsellor’s office. Strangely, the boy was sternly reprimanded as I was too but I got the feeling that mine was handled delicately. The disciplinary council then called my aunt and arranged for a staff to drop me off at home while she attended the meeting.
Frustrated and still angry, my pacing becomes even more restless and a persistent itch develops on my scalp. Walking quickly, the urge to punch something grows until I can’t resist. Barely holding on, I leave the living room and move into the hallway (can’t afford breaking any of my aunt’s beloved decorative china).
A door I have never seen opened stands to my left and it draws in my anger. I punch the door with all my might and it reverberates with the force of the blow. My hand explodes in pain and throbs with red-hot pulses. The anger, however, is now a little stream, satiated and expended.
As I turn to go find some ice for my hand in the fridge, a click comes from behind me. The door slowly swings open with the hinges protesting li
ghtly as it does. I turn back and stand there, awestruck.
A floor to ceiling poster stares back at me. On it is a well-built and equally proportioned specimen of a man. He has red boxing gloves on his hands, his smile is confident and his eyes hold the promise of adventure and a steely determination.
The inscription below it reads “Frank Lightening”.
Tearing my eyes from the picture as the door comes to a halt against the wall affording me a better view of the room; the walls are covered with posters of all sizes of the same man. There is a table piled high with tapes and in a corner stands a shelf with colourful robes, and another shelf to the side holds an assortment of things that I cannot identify and this is all I can see from my vantage point in the hallway before the open door.
As I curiously crane my neck to see more of the room, a horn beeps twice from outside the house and my heart leaps in my throat.
My aunt is back and that is her signal to come help with her shopping or whatever else she brought home with her. Hurriedly, I pull shut the door while trying to prevent its rusted hinges from creaking.
Wiping my sweaty hands on my pants, I then rush out to meet my aunt.
Chapter Three
Y
ou can’t hide things from family they say. I guess I should have known that this would probably ring true. My aunt made no mention of the meeting at my school. She warmly replied to my greeting and her behaviour was not in any way changed as we went through the motions of the evening routine, preparing dinner, checking the bills, arranging the laundry and doing the chores that accompanied our arrival at home after a busy weekday.
The moment I had been dreading did come but it was not totally as I expected. I was sitting on the sofa in the living room with a writing board on my lap, trying to do some school assignments when she called me from the hallway.
