His knuckles were split and bleeding slightly. His chest rose and fell in slow, deliberate breaths. He looked one of the kids dead in the eyes. A kid with terrible acne and a fake gold watch. Arthur didn't say a single word.
He didn't have to. The look in his eyes communicated a very clear, very simple promise. If you stay, you are next. The acne scarred kid dropped his malt liquor. The can hit the ground, foaming wildly, a pale yellow puddle rushing toward the sand pit.
Man, [ __ ] this. The kid breathed, his voice trembling violently. He didn't wait for his friend. He turned and sprinted toward the chain-link gate. His sneakers slipped on the gravel, nearly sending him tumbling, but he caught himself on the fence, vaulted awkwardly over the side instead of using the open gate, and bolted down the sidewalk without looking back.
His friend, left alone standing near the rusted merry-go-round, let out a choked whimper. He looked at Arthur, then down at neck tattoo, who was still twitching slightly in a pool of his own blood, and then at Derek, who was sobbing into his hands. The last hyena bolted, running straight through the open gate, his arms pumping wildly, disappearing around the corner of the failing strip mall in seconds. 17, 18. The park was suddenly overwhelmingly quiet.
The violent metallic screech of the fight was gone, replaced by the distant, indifferent hum of traffic on the overpass. The cold wind picked up, rattling the dry leaves in the oak tree. Arthur stood perfectly still in the center of the concrete. The adrenaline began to leave him. It never faded gracefully.
It crashed, leaving behind a cold, hollow ache in his stomach and a sudden sharp throbbing in his right shin and both hands. His L4 vertebra, the one he had compressed taking a bad takedown 6 years ago, screamed in protest. He looked down at his hands. The knuckles on his right hand were scraped raw. The skin split over the bone from the elbow strike.
His left palm was bruised a deep angry purple. He wiped his bloody right hand on his jeans, scrubbing hard to get the red stains off. He rubbed his face, taking a deep, shuddering breath, forcing the violent cold machinery in his mind to shut down. He had to pack it back into the box. He had to bury it deep.
He looked at the bodies on the ground. The red-beanie kid near the swings was starting to groan, rolling onto his side, holding his head. Neck tattoo was out cold. his jaw resting at an unnatural angle. Derek was still a sobbing, pathetic heap of bruised flesh. None of them were dead.
All of them would live, but they would eat through straws for a few weeks, and they would limp for a month. More importantly, they would never ever walk into a park and demand a little girl stop drawing butterflies again. 19, 20. Lily peeked around the rough bark of the oak tree. She had her hands over her eyes, but her fingers were spread just enough to see out.
Arthur immediately turned his back to the carnage on the ground. He shoved his bruised, bloody hands deep into the pockets of his flannel jacket to hide them. He forced his shoulders to drop, forcing a gentle, exhausting softness back into his posture. He walked toward her. His right leg dragged slightly, a subtle limp he couldn't quite hide, but he pushed through the pain.
I'm done, Daddy, " she whispered, her voice wavering. She stepped out from behind the tree, looking past him, her eyes widened as she saw the three men groaning on the concrete. "I know, Peanut. You counted perfectly, " Arthur said softly. He stepped into her line of sight, blocking her view of the blood and the broken teeth.
He knelt down, ignoring the sharp, grinding pain in his knees. He kept his hands in his pockets. "Are they sleeping? " Lily asked, her lower lip trembling again. Yeah, they're just taking a nap, Arthur lied smoothly. The cynicism of his reality meant lying to her constantly, lying about the overdue bills, lying about why they couldn't afford cable, lying about the monsters in the world.
They were very tired. We're going to leave them alone now. He offered her his elbow instead of his hand. Loop your arm right here, " he said, forcing a warm, tired smile like a gentleman. Lily sniffled, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her pink jacket and hooked her small arm through his.
Arthur stood up, gritting his teeth against the flare of pain in his lower back. They walked back toward the wooden bench. The canvas grocery bag lay on its side. A yellow pool of egg yolk was slowly coagulating on the dusty asphalt. The carton of milk had burst, a white river mixing with the yellow, soaking into the cheap cardboard of a frozen pizza box.
Arthur stared at the ruined groceries. It was $24. To some people, $24 was a cocktail at an ice bar downtown. To Arthur, $24 was 2 hours of driving a forklift in a freezing warehouse. It was the food for the next 3 days.
A heavy dark wave of exhaustion washed over him, far more crushing than the physical fight. He had survived the cage. He had survived the gang of bullies. But the ruined carton of eggs felt like a knockout blow. He sighed.
A long rattling sound in his chest. He reached down with his less damaged left hand and picked up the canvas bag. The bottom was soaked in milk dripping steadily onto his boots. He salvaged what he could. A box of dry pasta, a dented can of crushed tomatoes, a loaf of cheap white bread.
"Is the macaroni broken? " Lily asked, looking at the dripping bag. "Macaroni is invincible, kiddo, " Arthur said, his voice thick. He didn't look back at the men on the ground. He didn't care if they called the cops. Let them explain to the police how five grown men got hospitalized by a single guy holding a bag of groceries.