at the best of times : tom
Feb 5, 2013 23:47:35 GMT -5
Post by Raseri on Feb 5, 2013 23:47:35 GMT -5
I am, very often, an idiot.
It doesn’t matter that I’ve gotten exceptional grades in school for my entire life. It doesn’t matter that I’m the only seventeen-year-old architect I know, or that I can solve complicated math problems within seconds. It doesn’t matter that my intelligence is considered to be high above average, or that I can build a bird house with my eyes closed, or that I’m such a perfectionist that I have to take exactly five steps to the refrigerator before I allow myself to open it. Because in reality, having an IQ of 145 only counts for something when you use those 145 points to make intelligent life decisions, such as whether or not to go walking outside on an overcast afternoon with a screwed-up leg and no umbrella. Hmm, that sounds like a spectacular idea, Tony! Let’s do that!
My cast had been off for almost week now, but the one thing the doctors don’t tell you about losing those things is that you don’t lose all the pain along with them; it sticks around to haunt you for a little while longer. That’s why I went out that afternoon, trying to get back into the walking routine that I had allowed to falter after I’d broken my leg—because no one had cared to warn me that every time my foot hit the sidewalk, it was going to hurt like a bitch from the knee down. Of course, this didn’t start happening until about twenty minutes into my afternoon stroll, after I was far enough away from my house to know that the sweet salvation of my living room couch was twenty minutes away. For a while, I’d tried to endure the throbbing pain in my leg and finish my route, thinking that it would get better if I walked it out; however, this was no common bruise, nothing like getting kicked in the shin during a childhood game of street soccer. Eventually, I had to turn around and walk back home.
I took a shortcut down one of those back roads people always forget about, thinking it would make things easier, because I am, very often, an idiot. I thought that I would have at least the slightest idea of where I was going, since I had taken various shortcuts multiple times before, but I was wrong (Did I mention that I’m an idiot?). Needless to say, I became hopelessly lost, and my only hope of finding my way back home appeared to be a boy that was holy shit getting beat up by four giants holy shit.
I should have kept to myself. I should have ignored the entire scene and kept walking, deciding to trust myself enough to find my way home. But something about seeing that boy on the ground, being kicked and surrounded by four bigger guys, awakened a sort of empathetic anger in me, a part of me that still burned in silent hatred of the once-forgotten bullies that had tainted the memories of my early teenage years. I had been that kid before, I reflected as I continued to walk down the road like the imbecile I was, the pain in my leg momentarily forgotten. Honestly, I had no idea what I was going to do once I got closer; I was definitely not a fighter. I thought about throwing a rock at one of those brutes' heads, but that probably wouldn't accomplish much, unless I wanted my head smashed in. Then my hand strayed to my pocket, to the reason that I didn't have to deal with those sorts of kids anymore, and I could have slapped myself for not thinking about it sooner.
My heart was beating like a hummingbird's wings by the time my good knee connected with the first boy's crotch--this was one of the only methods of self-defense I was good at, and I wanted to get the group's attention. Immediately, he buckled over, and the look of confusion on his face was soon replaced with one of pain as I squeezed the trigger on the small can of pepper spray in front of his eyes and then the others'. "A woman's weapon," my father called it--and maybe he was right, but regardless it seemed to be working, as all four boys were howling and clutching their faces. The nice thing about pepper spray is that once it has come into contact with your skin, the only thing you can think about is the fire that is slowly slipping into every opening there is to offer. I hope it hurts as much as he probably does, I thought spitefully, holding out my hand and hurriedly helping the poor, bruised boy off the ground. "Come on," I hissed at him, almost whispering although we were outdoors and I had every right to use my outside voice.
I assumed we didn't have much time before those assholes would be able to see us again, so I pulled the boy behind me at a hurried pace that was almost a jog and ducked into some alley so they wouldn't know which way we'd gone. Once I felt more confident that they weren't gonna come after us, I allowed myself to slow down. There weren't any park benches in sight, so I plopped down on the edge of the sidewalk so I could catch my breath, letting go of the boy's hand (which I hadn't realized I was holding). My leg was throbbing with pain, but since I was in the presence of another human being, I made a conscious decision not to clutch it in pain like a wuss. All in all, though, things could have been worse. At least it wasn't raining yet.
The realization of what I had just accomplished eventually hit me. "What," I breathed, my eyes as wide as they could go, "the hell just..." I trailed off as my eyes drifted to to boy beside me, scanning him for any bad injuries. "Are you okay?"
thinking, speaking, doing, hearing, other
