Worthless

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I wanted to kill him.

The weak worthless price of shit.

I don't remember his name or the color of his shirt or what grade I was in. I don't remember why we were fighting. But I remember how my knuckles stung as they crushed his skin onto his skull.

I remember thinking the blood coming out of his face was too red. Fake.

I remember hating him but not knowing why I hated him. Knowing only that the hate felt good. As good as the sting of my knuckles. Better... the hate felt better. I remember wishing he would punch back as I sat on him and watched him cry like a fucking baby.

"Fight back!" I yelled, "I'll make you fight back!"

"Fuck you!!!" I screamed.

My brother pulled me off with what I had at the time, mistaken for a proud grin. After so many days of him seeing me come home bloody and holding back tears from a beating of my own he MUST have been proud.

As my brother and I walked home I could still hear the boy crying. Fading. Fading. It was like music. I wondered when his cries would give way to soft sobs. When the sobs would turn to sad, heavy breathing.

I wondered if the boy would be so ashamed that he would try and sneak into his house to clean the blood from his pale skin and change his clothes to remove any trace of the beating before his family got home.

What kind of a loser would do that?

I wondered if the boy's mom would comfort him, I wondered if his dad would teach him how to fight? Does he have a dad? A mom? A sister? Brothers?

Ha! Who cares?

The worthless fucking piece of shit.
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