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Dec. 3rd, 2011 05:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
historizereally short. rambling
It got really old. It did but, he was Alfred Jones and well, he couldn’t just give in to the bastard.
Ivan was always lurking around, breaking into his locker, finding him after class. He never did it in front of anyone—which, really, was the genius of it. Ivan wasn’t trying to show off—he just seemed to have something against Alfred personally. Though—Alfred’s friends knew about it. Arthur, Francis, Matthew and so on. But they weren’t about to stand up to Ivan.
Alfred had—for them, the bastards—that’s what had gotten him into this mess. His friends came to him when Ivan wouldn’t leave them be. And Alfred confronted Ivan instantly.
Ivan never lurked around his friends ever again. He seemed to think Alfred was more interesting. It was humiliating, really. Alfred was no small, skinny kid. He was pretty tall and strong. But today, Ivan had taken him to the concrete after a rough scuffle and then picked him up by his ankle. Alfred had grabbed onto his stupid leg and bitten it so Ivan would let him go.
He was home now, dabbing blood from his forehead. Not that it mattered, even if his friends saw it, they wouldn’t dare ask. Wouldn’t want to go getting involved.
“Oh, no,” he muttered, “Call me when you all need help but when it’s obvious something’s going on, keep your fucking distance…bastards…”
He had tolerated it at first, chalked it up to—well, they were smaller than him. Alfred had always been able to handle himself. But as time went on and Ivan’s—guh, he wanted to gag, to call it bullying--but that’s what it was—became more frequent, it became obvious they weren’t so interested in helping him as he was them.
Typical. People were assholes.
But it hurt him, deep down. Deep inside. He hated being alone and he had really thought they were different. That…Arthur was different.
But he wasn’t. Because they were people…they were people.
He drew away from them. They didn’t ask about it. Their Facebook pages discussed the latest soccer match scores and about going out on the weekends…they didn’t invite Alfred anymore. His love for them turned to resentment…and…lately….lately….
He felt the beginnings of something red and raw and dark when he thought of them.
But then he would backpedal. Surely, he didn’t hate them. He…he had had a…well, Arthur…about Arthur. But Arthur was the Student Council president. Concerned primarily with his image, with his own fucking pride.
And Matthew—was too fucking…worried, maybe, but worried enough to take any action, no. He was too weak and too timid.
And Francis—Francis’ number one concern was Francis.
Alfred didn’t have a ring of friends like Gilbert did. Or even Tino and Berwald.
Dammit. He was Jones, though, and he didn’t give in.
He went to school the next day. He didn’t use his locker anymore because of how many times Ivan had broken into it. So he carried his bag with him. He got through the whole day without seeing Ivan. He did see Arthur…his heart jumped and he felt nauseated. He followed Arthur with his eyes.
Arthur just said, absently, “Hi Alfred,” and walked away.
Matthew and Francis followed him.
Alfred felt that raw, red burning and turned away.
He didn’t see Ivan until that afternoon. As he was leaving, the large youth was waiting for him outside. “Hallo, Alfred.”
Alfred’s eyes narrowed. “Hi, Ivan. What do you want?”
“So angry today.”
“I’ll show you some fucking anger if you mess with me today, asshole.”
Ivan smiled. “I would like to see some.” He grabbed for him.
The next thing Alfred knew, they were fighting—real fist fighting this time. It seemed to get the drop of Ivan, because Alfred usually tried to resist fighting. The Russian was thrilled and he smashed Alfred’s head into the wall and Alfred punched him in the gut.
Ivan backed off a step. “What is this aggression I see today? You have finally realized that your friends will never defend you like you defend them? That Arthur will ask for you when he needs you and then insult you as soon as he doesn’t.”
Alfred tried to show no reaction—but it flickered across his face.
“Ah, this hurts you, doesn’t it,” Ivan told him. “That even if Arthur could care for you in the same manner you care about him…he would never tell you—because you embarrass him with your antics and headstrong attitude, yes? Why else would he barely ever even speak to you now. Even before—he acted as though it was just your silliness. But you have thought beyond that—probably before this and you know he thinks you are stupid.”
“I don’t need anyone.”
Ivan smiled. It was sinister. Sweet, yet sickly. “I wondered when you would come to that conclusion. You will step up to help them and protect them whenever they ask and yet—the moment they do not need you, they do nothing but tell you how stupid and loud and obnoxious you are.”
“Are you done?”
Ivan chuckled. “I’m not. But you are.” Ivan slammed his fist into Alfred’s gut. And caught him when Alfred cried out and sank. Alfred was already bleeding, and so Ivan left him on the concrete.
No one came to help him. He’s so loud, they said. He probably deserved whatever he got.
Isn’t he friends with the student council president? Oh c’mon, a guy like Arthur? Friends with that guy? Yeah right.
Isn’t he on the football team? And all the others teams? Yeah, who cares. He probably deserves it. Maybe he shouldn’t eat so much (To fill up the emptiness in his life, Kiku suggested). Maybe he shouldn’t try to be so interested in other people’s business. Maybe he should actually back off when people ask him too. He deserves it.
Alfred woke up two hours later. It was twilight, snow was falling. He staggered home. His parents were not interested in his bruises. He headed upstairs, they yelled at him for not taking out the garbage.
Something seemed to snap inside of him.
The next day, he got up late and took a baseball bat to school.
It felt good in his hands. Heavy, solid wood. A worn end, a strong grip.
Oh yes. Oh yes. Homerun, Alfred. Let’s have a home run. Everyone will like you if you try your hardest. Everyone will appreciate you if you do it for the team.
So of course, it was justified that after school, he walked up to Ivan and hit him in the head with the bat.
Again and again. And again. And when some burly student tried to grab him,
Alfred hit him too. Soon his bat was bloody and Alfred was bloody.
And he saw Arthur and Matthew and Francis, staring at him from the parking lot.
For a moment, Alfred looked at them and looked at the bat. And he thought about it. And thought about it. Going over there and finishing the job.
But he didn’t. He hefted the bat and left the school. They never saw him again after that. He vanished.
It got really old. It did but, he was Alfred Jones and well, he couldn’t just give in to the bastard.
Ivan was always lurking around, breaking into his locker, finding him after class. He never did it in front of anyone—which, really, was the genius of it. Ivan wasn’t trying to show off—he just seemed to have something against Alfred personally. Though—Alfred’s friends knew about it. Arthur, Francis, Matthew and so on. But they weren’t about to stand up to Ivan.
Alfred had—for them, the bastards—that’s what had gotten him into this mess. His friends came to him when Ivan wouldn’t leave them be. And Alfred confronted Ivan instantly.
Ivan never lurked around his friends ever again. He seemed to think Alfred was more interesting. It was humiliating, really. Alfred was no small, skinny kid. He was pretty tall and strong. But today, Ivan had taken him to the concrete after a rough scuffle and then picked him up by his ankle. Alfred had grabbed onto his stupid leg and bitten it so Ivan would let him go.
He was home now, dabbing blood from his forehead. Not that it mattered, even if his friends saw it, they wouldn’t dare ask. Wouldn’t want to go getting involved.
“Oh, no,” he muttered, “Call me when you all need help but when it’s obvious something’s going on, keep your fucking distance…bastards…”
He had tolerated it at first, chalked it up to—well, they were smaller than him. Alfred had always been able to handle himself. But as time went on and Ivan’s—guh, he wanted to gag, to call it bullying--but that’s what it was—became more frequent, it became obvious they weren’t so interested in helping him as he was them.
Typical. People were assholes.
But it hurt him, deep down. Deep inside. He hated being alone and he had really thought they were different. That…Arthur was different.
But he wasn’t. Because they were people…they were people.
He drew away from them. They didn’t ask about it. Their Facebook pages discussed the latest soccer match scores and about going out on the weekends…they didn’t invite Alfred anymore. His love for them turned to resentment…and…lately….lately….
He felt the beginnings of something red and raw and dark when he thought of them.
But then he would backpedal. Surely, he didn’t hate them. He…he had had a…well, Arthur…about Arthur. But Arthur was the Student Council president. Concerned primarily with his image, with his own fucking pride.
And Matthew—was too fucking…worried, maybe, but worried enough to take any action, no. He was too weak and too timid.
And Francis—Francis’ number one concern was Francis.
Alfred didn’t have a ring of friends like Gilbert did. Or even Tino and Berwald.
Dammit. He was Jones, though, and he didn’t give in.
He went to school the next day. He didn’t use his locker anymore because of how many times Ivan had broken into it. So he carried his bag with him. He got through the whole day without seeing Ivan. He did see Arthur…his heart jumped and he felt nauseated. He followed Arthur with his eyes.
Arthur just said, absently, “Hi Alfred,” and walked away.
Matthew and Francis followed him.
Alfred felt that raw, red burning and turned away.
He didn’t see Ivan until that afternoon. As he was leaving, the large youth was waiting for him outside. “Hallo, Alfred.”
Alfred’s eyes narrowed. “Hi, Ivan. What do you want?”
“So angry today.”
“I’ll show you some fucking anger if you mess with me today, asshole.”
Ivan smiled. “I would like to see some.” He grabbed for him.
The next thing Alfred knew, they were fighting—real fist fighting this time. It seemed to get the drop of Ivan, because Alfred usually tried to resist fighting. The Russian was thrilled and he smashed Alfred’s head into the wall and Alfred punched him in the gut.
Ivan backed off a step. “What is this aggression I see today? You have finally realized that your friends will never defend you like you defend them? That Arthur will ask for you when he needs you and then insult you as soon as he doesn’t.”
Alfred tried to show no reaction—but it flickered across his face.
“Ah, this hurts you, doesn’t it,” Ivan told him. “That even if Arthur could care for you in the same manner you care about him…he would never tell you—because you embarrass him with your antics and headstrong attitude, yes? Why else would he barely ever even speak to you now. Even before—he acted as though it was just your silliness. But you have thought beyond that—probably before this and you know he thinks you are stupid.”
“I don’t need anyone.”
Ivan smiled. It was sinister. Sweet, yet sickly. “I wondered when you would come to that conclusion. You will step up to help them and protect them whenever they ask and yet—the moment they do not need you, they do nothing but tell you how stupid and loud and obnoxious you are.”
“Are you done?”
Ivan chuckled. “I’m not. But you are.” Ivan slammed his fist into Alfred’s gut. And caught him when Alfred cried out and sank. Alfred was already bleeding, and so Ivan left him on the concrete.
No one came to help him. He’s so loud, they said. He probably deserved whatever he got.
Isn’t he friends with the student council president? Oh c’mon, a guy like Arthur? Friends with that guy? Yeah right.
Isn’t he on the football team? And all the others teams? Yeah, who cares. He probably deserves it. Maybe he shouldn’t eat so much (To fill up the emptiness in his life, Kiku suggested). Maybe he shouldn’t try to be so interested in other people’s business. Maybe he should actually back off when people ask him too. He deserves it.
Alfred woke up two hours later. It was twilight, snow was falling. He staggered home. His parents were not interested in his bruises. He headed upstairs, they yelled at him for not taking out the garbage.
Something seemed to snap inside of him.
The next day, he got up late and took a baseball bat to school.
It felt good in his hands. Heavy, solid wood. A worn end, a strong grip.
Oh yes. Oh yes. Homerun, Alfred. Let’s have a home run. Everyone will like you if you try your hardest. Everyone will appreciate you if you do it for the team.
So of course, it was justified that after school, he walked up to Ivan and hit him in the head with the bat.
Again and again. And again. And when some burly student tried to grab him,
Alfred hit him too. Soon his bat was bloody and Alfred was bloody.
And he saw Arthur and Matthew and Francis, staring at him from the parking lot.
For a moment, Alfred looked at them and looked at the bat. And he thought about it. And thought about it. Going over there and finishing the job.
But he didn’t. He hefted the bat and left the school. They never saw him again after that. He vanished.
