Sander and Robbe, Minute by Minute

Fucking Losers

"Just, don't look at me like that. I am just shocked, I've never had something like that happened to me."

Sander stayed silent.

"This was what Milan meant." Robbe said again.

"Milan? What did he say?"

"Just that, things, like this happens to people like us.. worse things." He fell silent. After a second he said, "You are bleeding."

Sander looked down to where Robbe was looking. There was a shallow gash on his right hand. Sander remembered the pin-prick feeling before. It's from the scattered glass of the bottles threw toward them when they were chased, just like Robbe's cut. He didn't even notice it until now. Sander wiped it absentmindedly with a tissue.

"Just some scratch. Yours is worse." Sander pointed to his face and smiled teasingly, "You look badass now."

Robbe smiled a bit at that. "Are they still there?"

Sander looked to the street, "No, they are gone."

"How did you know what to do? I can't even think, I was scared.."

Sander was silent. Because it happened before. Sander still remembered the boy with hazel eyes, the beating, the pain and humiliation, the fear.

He said, "I had a friend who was beaten by some strangers. He told me the story, luckily some people saw them when they were beaten in a fucking alley, and the assholes ran away."

Sander continued, "He told me that, it is ironic that our first instict is leading a predator to where they could hurt us easier, like some empty alley or something. It was a hard lesson for him. He talked with some friends after, and he told me that, what we should do, is finding somewhere public, you know, crowded, or yell for help."

He fell silent, looking at Robbe's face. And then he said, "The bikes would take time, and they might just caught us."

Robbe nodded, watching him.

Sander got up, "Look, we better get home."

Robbe didn't move.

"Robbe?"

He looked at him and said in a small voice, "I can't. How if they are still there? hiding? waiting for us?"

Sander pointed at the street where his bag was lying open on its side. "They are gone. They took some of my stuff, the fucking losers." And then he laughed.

Robbe looked up at him and asked disbelievingly, "How could you laugh?"

Sander stopped. It's either that or crying.

"Look, they won't hang around, they probably drunk somewhere or beating someone, or whatever they do with their miserable existence."

Sander was getting angry now, which was what he preferred at the moment. The fucking losers!

He looked down at Robbe's face, there were fear and shame in it. Sander felt furious. He wanted to beat the shit out of them, every last one of them. Taking a calm breath, he said softly, "How about this? I'll call a taxi for you, that way you will be safe."

Robbe looked up and nodded. Sander took his phone and booked one.

"Okay, it'll take around 5 to 10 minutes."

Sander said, "I will wait with you before going home."

"What? You are riding your bike home?"

"Ya, why not? I am not going to let some fuckers have power over me."

"But—"

"Robbe, it's fine. I am not stupid.. I am perfectly sure they are gone, anyway my home is closer than yours. And I will stick to the main street. I will call you right away when I arrive at home."

"You could have easily ride the taxi with me."

Sander huffed, "Cmmon Robbe, are we gonna arguing all night? I am riding my bike. The taxi is coming, and I will feel better if you took one home."

Robbe opened his mouth to argue again but he closed it. He nooded briefly.

"Let's wait outside, the fresh air will be good."

"Okay."

They walked out and waited in front of the pub. Sander watched Robbe face. He noticed Robbe's eyes darting from the street to street, to the right and left, to the buildings. After a while, he heard him exhaled quietly. Sander left him for a moment and walked toward his bag. The bag was ripped open, his drawing tools were scattered, pieces of wood from his brushes, some sculpture materials, broken bottles and loose tore sheets from his school books scattered around it. He was lucky he left his camera back home. He broke out into another laugh. Eat that assholes.

Nothing was valuable enough taken, except his drawings. He looked sadly at the pieces all over the street. He put back what was left of his sketch books inside his bag; it was not ripped too bad, and he definitely keeping it. He walked back to Robbe.

Robbe looked at him nervously, "What did they take?"

"Nothing important."

Some couples minute later, the taxi came. Robbe got in and Sander squeezed his hand gently before closing the car door. Sander kept his word and stuck to the middle of the main street. He was certain that they were gone, but the lingering fear was still there, and he watched the street cautiously at every crosses and corners. When he was home, he breathed out a relief sigh and hurriedly went in.

Note: I know that I change this part of the story. This is probably the biggest change I make. I am sorry, but I am just utterly incapable of writing Robbe and Sander beaten to shit in a dark alley. I think the threat of violence is traumatic enough.