Trapped with a Way Out

by Jeffery Martinez

  "It's Vincent."

  "No, it's Freak."

  "Stoopid can't even learn my name, after I've told him a billion times. My name's Vincent."

  "Yo mama's stoopid. Yo mama wouldn't even date you. You so god damn ugly." Stoopid puffed up at the praise his yo mama-ing received, and he crossed his arms triumphantly.

  Vincent, however, was giving him a look like the kid couldn't possibly get any dumber. He was even shaking his head. "Wow. Your mom's your girlfriend? That's really gross."

  Outright taunting nearly swallowed up Stoopid, as his friends slapped him on the back, an especially hard slap coming from Burn!-boy, who took advantage of his friend's vulnerability. Someone even pulled back his hood so that his capacity to intimidate was halved. Growling and losing control of his pitch as it was hijacked by rage and puberty, Stoopid squeaked, "No," and then shouted, "I was talking about your mama-!"

  "Huh? What? You were talking from experience?" Vincent was smiling, unable to feel it, his face numb while his mind was equally disengaged as his mouth worked by itself. "You know, just because you kiss her, that doesn't make her your girlfriend. I mean, what would happen if you kissed your dad? Which one of you would wear the dress?"

  A shove went unreturned by Vincent, who still sat on the steps, trying his hardest to look smug and composed, while he couldn't even listen to his own thoughts, his heart was so wild. His mind flailed within a typhoon. Vincent licked his lips about every five seconds, but none of the boys had picked up on this. Stoopid shoved Vincent again, making him fall on his side, and Vincent's elbow slammed into the step above him when he tried to catch himself. When this also failed to incite a response, anything beyond a minor wince of pain, Stoopid cussed at Vincent. His colorful array of same words just said louder and louder made its way into the entrance of the building. And at that time bodies were just beginning to emerge from the door the giant had closed; something hadn't worked out during the brief meeting, so the general mood was already cloudy. Joel heard the language, and his brow scrunched as he recalled that Vincent was supposed to be outside. Which was where all the rumpus was coming from. The giant glanced at the long black ponytail as a figure passed him and proceeded to the door.

  It appeared as though Stoopid and another boy had grabbed Vincent's sweatshirt as the door was opening, and together they heaved Vincent onto the asphalt while Walter looked on. Walter did not speak. He did not move. Joel peered over him to see into the alley. As soon as the one-sided fight was spotted, the crown of Walter's head received a disapproving frown, and the giant gently bypassed the seemingly indifferent uncle to hobble down the steps, gripping his bad leg with a strained hand, wincing all the way down.

  Tangled up in his inside-out sweatshirt, Vincent's snared head and arms flapped futilely, like trout in a fishing-net. The boys used the sweatshirt to pull him in one direction and then another, carousing with mean, boyish hilarity. One boy, laughing, dragged him across the narrow back alley, towards a group of metal garbage pails.

  Joel scowled up from his leg – moody due to pain – just in time to see a boy kick over a heavy garbage can, so that it spilled out next to, and onto, the incapacitated Vincent. Joel identified Vincent as the boy on the ground, knotted up in his clothes. Since they had let go of the red-eyed freak to avoid the smelly garbage, Vincent was able to tug his way out of his sweatshirt. Unfortunately, this left his pale, blue-veined arms exposed beneath the inadequate sleeves of the dark grey T-shirt he was wearing. The shirt was drenched in sweat. Anxious and self-conscious, Vincent gnawed his lip until it throbbed, and he clutched his sweatshirt close while the boys laughed at him, pointed at him, and told him he had a yogurt lid stuck to his ugly, stoopid hair.

  Vincent's back was to the door and he'd yet to notice their audience, so he flinched and was startled by the giant hand that clapped onto his shoulder. But the big red eyes looked up at this savior with all the gratitude Vincent could squeeze past his overbearing shame. A pale hand hastily patted out the yogurt lid, and once it was peeled off, Vincent dithered, not sure if throwing it on the ground would be considered littering. And he didn't like littering, and his uncle didn't like littering, and he thought Joel probably thought littering was a bad thing too. So he held on to it, tucking his sweatshirt under his left arm, until he realized that, with Joel here, he had time to slip it on. His heart pittered madly with his anxiety driven thoughts.

  Shoving his head through the cloth, Vincent squinted back at the group of hesitant boys while maneuvering his arms through the sleeves. His primary focus became patting the dirt off his back. Ugh, it was even on the back of his T-shirt. He could feel the grains, like sand, and smaller particles felt like really thick dust. Agh, it's so stupid, Vincent chewed his lip and pulled on his clothes miserably. I'm all dirty. Uncle won't like this at all. Glancing back only because he dreaded what his uncle would think of this situation, not actually suspecting his presence, Vincent held the yogurt lid tightly in his hands, and stared fearfully back at his uncle's indecipherable expression. The hard blue eyes; he could never tell if it was anger or disinterest, or even if this was just his uncle's default. Vincent's eyes and face burned with renewed shame, and he had to look away. He turned to the boys, as though there might be some way to remedy the situation.

  Another adult, followed by a companion, emerged from the door as Walter descended the steps. The men assessed the reason for the delay, and saw Vincent and Joel before spotting the delinquent posy. "Oh!" one man laughed to his partner, "I guess Joel's nephew got into a fight. The meeting didn't even last ten minutes!"

  The other man chortled, though his eyes were calm, assessing, as he waited to see what would happen next. "He's so puny compared to Jake. And timid."

  Walter, at the bottom of the steps, and within listening distance, did not react. He was accustomed to the misunderstanding. It was simpler this way. And Walter, at times, considered himself to be a rather simple man, of simple tastes and needs. Despite his profession, and his hobbies, allies, reluctant allies, and all the people who wanted to kill him, or dissect him; he was a simple man. And he simply couldn't be bothered to correct them.

  So deep blue eyes were fixed on "Joel's Nephew" as Walter watched the back of the dirty black sweatshirt and Vincent stood before the triad of hooligans.

  Vincent's heart thudded and his hands became clammy. They quivered like his lips when he tried to mouth possible retorts, something to save face, but not something immature. The problem was that his audience and his adversaries were of differing tastes. Something immature would be more effective and better received by Vincent's adversaries, but the adults, specifically Vincent's uncle, would appreciate an immature retort much less. And something sophisticated or witty was beyond him, while something factual and obvious would be disregarded and taunted by the boys, while the adults would probably accept it better, it being at the very least somewhat rational.

  So the fight came to a standstill. The boys in the posy stood beside the toppled garbage can. Vincent stood in the shadow of the building, as the evening bloodied the sky and pulled shadows like morticians' sheets across the alley. Vincent would have remained standing there beside the giant until the end of time. If not for the obscenity that Stoopid uttered, that twisted expressions, formed distaste in the men's faces, and exploded Vincent's own timidity with total amazement, bewilderment, and then rage…

  The boys howled at the (un)original Yo Mamma joke of the century. Pausing, they began to laugh twice as hard when skinny, wimpy-looking Vincent strode towards them, his feet swift, his head low, his eyes on fire. Stoopid sneered at Vincent when this ugly little freak gripped his shirt and glared up at him, jerking Stoopid roughly. Stoopid positively giggled at the pale, grotesque expression on Vincent's face, "What? You telling me yo mamma ain't a whore?" Nothing registered in Vincent's features. He did not know what a whore was. But anyone would have felt offended by the graphic scene that had involved Vincent's mother and many, many men, which Stoopid expanded upon after his
last insult. "-and she'll swallow, all of it."

  Stoopid gasped something that sounded like a wrenched-hiccup. His body felt like it had been hit by a lead missile, torn so abruptly and completely from the ground, and he was slammed, face first, into the side of the toppled trashcan. He didn't even twitch as his friends stared down at his body, and the dented trashcan.

  A boy grabbed the trashcan lid from the pile of spilled garbage, his muscles knowing how to shift into a ready assault while his friend was still too stunned to register what was happening. Crimson eyes flicked to the boy and Vincent's body revolved to face him, crouched to meet the blow of the metal lid. The boy swung it down into Vincent's shoulder. Immediately, Vincent's hands closed like a vice – he gripped the weapon wielding arm, already crushing a whimper of pain from the boy before he swung him to the side, as though he were flinging a rat across the alley by its tail. His horrendous strength, crammed into such a deceptive frame, had the men blank, mute, and three of them staring. Walter's eyes had widened, briefly. He registered the familiar strength, Vincent's strength - his brother's. Vincentimir had the temper and the brutish power. Unpleasant memories arose, fleetingly, and Walter's shoe ground into the asphalt with agitated reluctance.

  Walter was well acquainted with the danger this temper presented, especially when paired with Vincent's surges of raw, physical might. He stepped forward, to prevent Vincentimir from bashing the other children to pieces. It was then that Vincentimir heaved the pre-teen body against the wooden fence (flung again like a rat) that separated them from the neighboring building, and a frightened thirteen year-old lifted up a baggy sweatshirt and pulled a gun from the crotch of his pants.

  Silence fell, as though a shot had been fired. There was no blast, but the thirteen year-old grew cold, sweating, shaking now with true horror, and, swallowing, looked back at the adults. His lips parted as his breath spasmed through his diaphragm, he could hear himself panting, a whimper behind his breaths as he turned the gun instinctively, unwillingly, towards the weapons which faced him. His face pleaded, while the two men at the top of the stairs were stolid, and unhesitating. The gun moved between targets, even Joel was considered for an instant.

  Joel cringed at the slicing breeze, shaking his head. He motioned, beseechingly for the kid to lower his goddamn gun. Walter stood behind Vincent, in the line of fire. Where the gun had initially been pointed, and now, intermittently, returned, and lingered as the boy met the man's cool, soul-bearing eyes.

  The door opened suddenly behind the two men who were prepared to shoot the boy on Walter's command, or at their own discretion. One man looked back at the newcomers, while the other kept both eyes on the trouble below, their actions harmonized after a decade long partnership. A tall man with snowy hair blinked, and hesitated to make any assumptions as he saw the two men. The guns weren't directed at him. The old man saw the collection of standing, breathing bodies in the alley, the Angel of Death blocking his view of Vincent. It appeared as though the man's idiot grandson was biting off something that was going to tear him into bloody hunks and strew him about the filthy street. The image churned in the grandfather's guts.

  Harsh Russian boomed into the alley, and the boy with the gun jolted and shrunk a few feet away. At least now his gun was pointed at the ground; the grandfather cursed as men inside watched over his shoulder. He was mortified by the whole situation. "I'll let them kill you. I give them permission to kill you. You fool. What do you think you are doing? Huh? … What? Nicolai, give me that gun so I can beat your father upside the head with it! … NOW! You fool! Now!" Hurry, otrod'ye!

  Scurrying, head low and trembling with receding adrenaline, the grandson ran in an exaggerated arch around Walter, his friend scurrying behind him, and then the grandson danced anxiously at the bottom of the stairs while he waited for the two men to walk by. Slowly the men slid their guns into their holsters, tracked by the delinquent boys' gaping eyes. One man glanced in the boys' direction, cold, perhaps a little annoyed, but overall his look said Nicolai wasn't worth his grandfather's efforts. Hanging his head, Nicolai stumbled up the steps, tripping twice.

  When he handed the gun over, a large, heavy palm landed against his face. He held his cheek gratefully, and nodded his head as he apologized, again, and again. He did not cry.

  "Now," the grandfather grabbed him roughly and jerked him towards the Angel of Death, "now you apologize to them-"

  But the group at the top of the stairs went quiet, as the grandfather noticed Vincent for the first time. His grandson's dishonored companion had returned to engage Vincent once more, desperate, delirious with fear and shame – he had to do something about the freak, or else this loss reflected on much more than a child's skirmish (or so he thought). His mind discarded reason for a time, effortlessly operating without it. He thought of his father's work, of his aims and plans. With this great man in attendance, and not understanding what had changed – attributing all of the trouble to the gun, and only the gun – the boy returned to the battle to pick up his dignity, which had been hurled into the fence like a girl's Barbie doll. Vincent took his bait, and swallowed it, and strode up the nearly tangible fishing line. The boy shifted back, and back, additional steps of retreat as he glared doubtfully, confusedly at his eager prey. He finally bit his lip and put up his fists, ready to make things right.

  The boy's mouth felt dry as he forced a laugh, "You asshole!" He shuffled back, grimacing as he tried to smirk, "You come over here and fight me! I'll f* you up! I'll teach you a real lesson!"

  All this goading sounded hollow and idiotic to the boy, but Vincent was coming. Time slowed and sped and slowed, but the increasingly demonic thing was coming, and that was what he had wanted. Then, the boy began to second guess his plan. He choked, realizing Vincent was his own height, not shorter than him by even a centimeter, no. The only sure (and stupid) advantage he'd thought he'd had, disappeared. He gulped, and 'reason' slugged him in the stomach, "You f-f-f*cker."

  The boy jumped back when Vincent lunged at him, silent and creepily unyielding in his advance, swerving to follow the retreating body. The boy kicked Vincent in the knee, which Vincent seemed not to have expected. As Vincent tried to regain his footing and took a moment to lock eyes with the boy again, a fist buried itself in his face. But Vincent didn't budge. He stood there like a man three times his size, and the blood-red eyes stared into the boy's face as the fist pulled back gradually, spooked by Vincent's utter indifference. He hadn't even blinked. Whatthe hell was wrong with him?

  Blood began to run over Vincent's mouth, but he didn't react to it. Because he didn't feel it. He had no thoughts. He couldn't think. And he grabbed the preteen and heaved him into the pile of garbage the boy's friend had spilled earlier.

  An old desk phone that had been thrown out came into contact with the boy's hand; he picked it up and swung it at Vincent like some ineffective mace that split apart on impact. Vincent put his arm up and received another blow from what remained of the old phone, keeping eye contact with his target. Never letting him go.

  Vincent punched the boy, hard, solidly across the face, making him taste blood. The boy tackled Vincent, using his legs to trip up Vincent's feet so that they fell, rolling, grappling across the smelly, trash littered asphalt. The boy found the trashcan lid and pounded it into Vincent's skull, until Vincent had had enough of that. Vincent grabbed the boy's shirt, then yanked him forward so that he fell into a head butt that smashed his nose.

  Vincent picked him up. And threw him down.

  He picked him up, and threw him.

  Picked him up, and threw him.

  …

  Down.

  Into the garbage, each time scattering more debris, spreading it over more of the alleyway. The boy would try to get to his feet, and Vincent would pull him off balance, step forward, and use this momentum to throw him down again. Continuing until the boy thrust his head into Vincent's stomach and wrestled him to the ground. The boy was on top of him, flailing with weak fists, gas
ping for breath and drenched in sweat. And when he gasped again, deeper, to satisfy his starved lungs, he bent forward to resume- Vincent jabbed his elbow up, and something in the face above, crunched.

  Both of them were bleeding, grimy messes. A guttural groan gurgled over the silent alley like vomit, and the boy rolled away, sputtering as, alarmingly, blood clogged his throat, and he tasted the vile, nauseating heat of it. Slick against his tongue. Vincent sat up from the debris, and watched the boy who cupped his face and remained with his head down on the asphalt, on his knees, rocking spasmodically, blood pouring from his nose and from his mouth. He coughed and choked on it, gagging and frightened by the quantity and its flowing, unending exodus. Tears came hot, but unfelt, for all the hot blood that wet his face.

  A gash ran deep across his forehead.

  Vincent cooled back into coherency, dislocated from his current state of being. He rubbed his sleeve over his wet mouth and looked about for his uncle, who he found and stared at stupidly. Disoriented and suddenly exhausted and a tad hungry, for Vincent reality was a foreign plain which his senses probed tentatively. For what had just happened… What hadhappened? Nothing had happened, from what he could tell. And he would not look at the bleeding boy, or the unconscious body by the trashcan. No need to. No desire to.

  With a hollow cheerful urge, Vincent felt like he wanted to go home, so he went to his uncle, and waited. Obediently, docile once more. He hoped they would leave as soon as possible, and that he could eat something good for dinner. Maybe go out to eat with Jake, so he could have some meat. Home was a meat-free zone. No meat there, no. None at all. And homework, he had some of that to do, right? Yeah. But he didn't like homework, so he diverted to other thoughts, the torrent swirling his mind into a thrashing and false apathy.

  Walter was speaking, so Vincent looked up, but realized, without surprise, that his uncle was talking to Joel – of course he wasn't talking to Vincent, nope, no. It was to Joel, of course, of course it was him, Uncle's friend… Uncle something- he said- erm, yes?- and so, and so Vincent listened, as though pressing his ear, trembling, against a wall, searching and grasping at a muffled idea of what lay beyond his sudden isolation. He felt lonely. He didn't know why.