Games

It’s a backyard game atmosphere, and that is fine with him. Because he doesn’t belong here – so it is just as well that the other players are as likely to laugh as to cuss, to be drinking beer as Gatorade.

It was hot out, sticky, and the roof of his mouth clung to his tongue between gasps for air. Occasionally, a stray elbow or knee found its way to his gut making him wince with pain as air left him in a thin wheeze.

Sweat dripped from his fingertips, ran down his forehead into his muddy brown eyes, and matted his back – turning the grey Puma t-shirt into a dark, second-skin. Flecks of blood oozed from knuckles and a purple mound appeared on the left corner of his lip.

The game moved in a haze, blurred snapshots passing quickly in his vision. Every sound was slurred and seemed to last for eternity, lagging behind the images it accompanied. Every millisecond slowed and demanded it be noticed and recognized.

Now and then, his eyes went black and the sounds disappeared. Only the crunch of cartilage as a fist met with his face or chest. When his sight returned, it was a little dimmer then before, but that was alright. A nod in the offender’s direction – almost in thanks.

Then he drew the back of his hand across his face, wiping clotted blood and saliva, mucus and tears. Turning from the others, he spat a chip from a tooth into a group of clover, and shuddered.

He didn’t belong here, but at least they let him stay.