Wrong Guy

42 | a sheep in wolf's clothing

I should do my best, to not trick myself into believing that I can be better, when the only place it's gotten me, is here. A lone sports car sitting outside of a crappy gas station at four in the afternoon.

The radio doesn't even work.

It's the only reason I can hear footsteps approaching. I know what's coming, I'm surprised someone hasn't turned me in for loitering already given its been a good eight hours now.

"I can't believe this motherfucker," comes the voice, that I quickly realize, isn't that of a cop.

Turning around in my seat I see them, and have to blink a few times as I accept that fact that they do not look nearly as unfriendly as they usually do. They do not look even remotely unfriendly.

At the same time they do not look like friends.
I know what friends look like.

She looks better than usual. Her hair is tied up in a ponytail displaying prominent cheekbones and clear tan skin. She's wearing what she normally wears, nothing special, nothing different, I realize after that, that nothing is really different about her at all.

She just looks better.

"Get out of the car, you prick. I want a word!" Comes the call from the imposing boy next to her. His eyes are dark, his hair, a mess, his hands, in fists, and he stands with a purpose. He stands to be by her side.

I stand – alone.

I slowly open up the door to my Corvette and approach the two.
I stand in front of them, and I suddenly feel like an even bigger scum of society than before when she starts crying. Tears poor down her face and I realize it's all my fault. That this is my doing.

I've done it again.

His arms drape around her shoulders, as she attempts to compose herself. He looks at me, with a glare more murderous than my own a few days ago, eyes more focused like a predator than mine have ever been.

I've hurt the person he loves – I realize.

I realize that no apology will ever make this right. So I stand silent, waiting for the beating to be given.
My father always told me that whenever I felt I'd done something wrong. To stand and wait for punishment, because the world would let you know if you were deserving in one way or another.

Typically it came in a curse from him, or a slammed door in my face, or a stare of disappointment from the man who'd made up half of me. So now I wait to see if I am wrong once more.

I am.

His fist is cold. Icy, even. Since its happening in slow motion I can nearly hear the sound of my jaw cracking, before he goes in again.

And again.

And again.

Until my eye is black, and my lip is cracked and all you can see on the guy's knuckles is red.
I look up to meet his eye, once the punishment has been served and realize it's not over.

"You are filth."

Somehow that blow was the hardest to take.
Maybe because it didn't come from him.