Nano-snippet

[kleine-aster.livejournal.com]

Charaktere: Shaun Percival, Keith und die "hunters": Cam, Mitch, Leon, Poulon. Billy Brock.
Challenge: Schamlose Selbstbefriedigung. Es war so klar, oder? XD
Warnings: Homophobia, violence.
Wörter: 2.346 (Ich steh dazu!)
A/N: Shaun und seine, uh, Arschloch-Freunde brechen zu einer ihrer "Hunts" auf - ärmere Schüler schikanieren und verkloppen. Nach einer recht erfolgreichen Nacht sind sie auf dem Heimweg und laufen in eins ihrer Lieblingsopfer. (Billy ist aus meiner letzten Nano übrig geblieben, aber er fügte sich so gut ein.) Ich wollte gestern posten, aber mein Internet hatte sich verabschiedet. ><"


They all were in a stellar mood on their way back to the Institute, and more or less unharmed. Mitch’s nasty nosebleed had subsided. Leon had a bruised cheekbone, his buddy Poulon a bald spot where someone had ripped out a chunk of his hair. Cam was sporting a black eye that, for some reason, made him look even more dangerously handsome. He’d sure as hell show off the reminder at Maddie’s party next week. Shaun had his swollen cheek, as well as some scratches where the girl had gotten him. Keith was completely untouched, to nobody’s surprise.

They’d make quite a sight at training tomorrow. But they weren’t worried. Coach would only give them a knowing smirk; he didn’t mind that his boys were a little rowdy, as long as the trophies kept coming in.

Mitch was the only one not beaming with pride. “Do you really think they know all our names?” He asked nervously. “What if they tell?”

Keith, obviously feeling generous after it was over, gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. I admit it’s a little inconvenient that our names got out, but the police chief is best friends with my father. When the public schoolers get themselves into a brawl, he knows who’s at fault there. He knows who the truly unsavoury elements are in this city.”

“Speaking of unsavoury elements,” Cam suddenly muttered. “Look who it is.”

They were back at the Seven Eleven, where the night had started. And right, there he was, staggering out of the shop, a cigarette between his lips. Shaun could almost feel the loathe rising between them as they saw him.

His name was Billy Brock, and he was a little piece of shit. He was worse than a public schooler. He was a foster kid, who’d managed to get himself expelled from public school. Nobody knew what he was up to since getting his ass kicked to the curb by the worst place in town. Not even the kids of Paradise High wanted anything to do with him. Rumour had it that he was sucking dudes dicks for money. Even worse rumours said that he was sucking dudes dicks for fun, because he liked it, because he was a faggot. Shaun could see Keith’s mood literally curdle like milk as soon as Brock stepped into sight.

On top of that, Brock was also ugly as sin. His round, pale face was ravaged by acne, his cheeks puffy from the braces he was still wearing, despite being sixteen. As if the pimples weren’t bad enough, he’d gotten himself a bunch of piercings in his lips, nose, and eyebrows, which were always in varying states of inflammation. His eyes were glazed over because he was constantly on something. He put eyeliner under his eyes, which in itself was repulsive, but the fact that he did it incompetently (and possibly while high) made him look like a Halloween clown. His hair was a greasy, unwashed, vaguely emo looking mess. His pudgy, milky-white hips always seemed to hang out of his baggy pants. Slumped in his hoodie, he looked like a slimy rock covered with moss, and smelled worse.

Shaun immediately got angry that he even had to look at that shit. “That fucking loser,” Cam sneered next to him, and he nodded darkly.

They didn’t even have to talk about it. They knew what to do.

“Hey, Brock, you filthy fag!” Cam shouted, and they all started toward him at once.

Brock turned around as if in a daze, his eyes white in his pimply, saggy face. The cigarette slipped from his lips. Late, way too late, he attempted to get away, but he was practically running in slow motion; his one-pack-a-day lungs didn’t support exercise. He was wheezing after a few steps.

And then, he slinked into a dark alleyway, because his self-preserving skills were made of shit.

Keith got him by his filthy hair, and Brock gargled with pain as he was yanked back and subsequently slammed against a wall. The boy immediately went limp; Keith had to hold him up by the neck of his hoodie. He was the weakest of the weak. He wouldn’t even put up a fight.

He was all theirs.

For the first time that night, Keith smiled. “Hey Billy, darlin’,” he said, before he buried his fist in Brock’s make up-smeared clown visage.

They took turns on him. Careful to hurt him, but not knock him out, because that’d be no fun. Pushing him around like a rag doll, landing slaps, punches and kicks, until he was on the dirty ground, crawling around on all fours, whimpering like a dog. His clothes were torn. Shaun stared at his bruised knees and fish-white belly falling out of his hoodie. And suddenly, he wondered what it’d be like to rip off his pants and stick it in him; what it’d be like to be inside him –

The thought was so sudden and powerful that it knocked the breath out of his lungs. Shaun took a swift step back, as if he had burned himself on something.

Leon gave him a suspicious look. “’sup, Percival?”

“Nothin’”, Shaun wiped his mouth. “He stinks, is all.”

As Keith approached him again, Brock finally raised his hands in weak, pathetic defense. His teeth were shimmering red in the moonlight. His braces had torn up the insides of his mouth.

“N-no,” he stammered. “No more. Please. I don’t…I wasn’t…I was just…I’m just…”

It was hard to tell what he was trying to say. He probably didn’t know, either. Keith grabbed him by the collar of his hoodie and shoved him against the wall again. Brock was just hanging there, crying pathetically. He’d started crying a while ago. He cringed as Keith shoved his knee between his legs, grinding against him.

“Y’know, I’m so glad little fucks like you don’t procreate,” Keith whispered to him, sweetly. “Why won’t you learn, Brock? Why won’t you learn not to show your ugly mug around here? Why don’t you just crawl under a rock and die?”

Shaun wasn’t sure why he noticed it. Perhaps because he was staring at Brock while everyone else was staring at Keith. It took only seconds. A sudden shift in Brock’s pathetic, helpless eyes, something his plump hands were doing, a small shred of silver shimmering in the dark –

“Keith!” He shouted. “Watch out!”

Brock howled when Shaun slapped the butterfly knife out of his hands. It landed on the pavement and slid away. Keith staggered back, pale as a sheet. The moment had lasted long enough to see that if Shaun hadn’t stopped him, Brock would have gone straight for his jugular.

The little punk had dropped to his knees, still howling, holding his wrist. As he looked up, Shaun saw an accumulation of hate in his face like he’d never seen on anyone. And he was looking straight at him.

“I HATE Y – ” Brock screeched, but he didn’t get any more out, because Keith was on him like a berserker. One hand closed around his throat, and the other began pummeling his stomach. With a jolt of terror, Shaun realized that all bets were off.

“You pull a knife on me?!” Keith screamed while his fist came down again, and again. “You pull a knife, you little fuck? You shit?!” Brock was wailing for the first two beats, and then he fell horribly silent.

It all could’ve only lasted seconds, but it felt like forever to Shaun, as he noticed that everyone else was just standing there, watching the spectacle. Slowly, it dawned on him that Keith would kill the boy if he didn’t do anything. He’d never seen him like this.

It took Shaun all his strength to pry Keith off of Brock’s heaving, twitching body. Nobody was helping him. They were all still standing around, staring, just staring.

“Let me go!” Keith shouted, struggling to get back to his prey. “I’m your captain!”

Shaun turned to Cam, who looked on dispassionately. “C’mon, let’s get him out of here, or he’ll kill him.”

“So what?” Cam retorted. “He tried it first!”

Shaun rolled his eyes in his direction, which was hard, because he was still fighting to keep Keith in check. “Oh, right, sure, let’s explain that to the cops.” Desperate, his eyes eventually met Mitch’s. The freshman looked as if about to wet himself. “You. Help me. I’m your senior. Move.”

Mitch hesitated for a moment, but then he obliged. When Leon and Poulon saw that, they finally went in to help. Keith was still half-mad with rage as they dragged him out of the alley. Shaun anxiously looked over his shoulder, to see whether or not Billy Brock was alive or dead. But he was apparently alive enough to crawl into a fetal position; that had to do for now. With a pang of guilt, Shaun became aware that he should be calling an ambulance for him. But how could he? He had his hands full.

Sure hope someone takes pity on you, he thought, clutching his captain’s muscular arm. You sure as shit need it.


Billy Brock didn’t know how long he lay there, but he knew he needed help, kinda a lot. He tried for it, a few times, desperately: “…help…”, but he was more croaking it to himself, in the dark. Nobody would come, anyway. They wouldn’t see him, or hear him, or they’d think he was some creepy perv doing schtick to lure unsuspecting victims into an alleyway. Which happened around here, often.

He also knew he was hurt. Badly, maybe. Billy didn’t care so much about the bruises, or that his face was swelling, or that one of them had ripped out his earring. He was used to that. But something was happening inside him, he was bleeding on the inside or some shit, and it terrified him. He knew it because every time he spasmed, he tasted fresh blood. He’d rolled over to the side so it could run out of his mouth, because he knew that was how junkies died – choking on their bile or biting themselves and junk – and he didn’t want to be that.

He really, really, desperately didn’t want to die.

But as he was lying there, that possibility came closer, closer, until he could barely keep his eyes open. He wanted to pass out. He knew he couldn’t dare to pass out.

He’d tried to crawl back on to the main street, at least, so maybe someone could spot him, a hobo or a whore or someone coming from a party. But he couldn’t support himself. It hurt too much. After maybe half a meter, he flopped down again, face-down in the dirt.

It was cold, so he warmed himself by whispering “I hate ‘em I hate ‘em I hate ‘em” under his breath, and it made him smile, but after a while it became too hard. He’d almost gotten one of them, almost … everything would have been different, if he had …

Or maybe not. There were still five of them. They probably would’ve killed him, anyway.

He’d gotten himself killed tonight.

This was happening.

Everyone had always said that would be how he’d end up.

Time went by; minutes, or hours. Sometimes he cried a little bit, but it came and went. After a while, everything began to look washed-out, then slowly faded into the distance. He barely noticed that it were his own eyes that were closing.

When he awoke, he was looking up at the most beautiful face he’d ever seen.

Billy stared at it numbly. It was either a boy or a girl, or both. A boy or girl with slender, refined features, soft, long black hair, and a single dark eye examining him without hate or disgust. The face smiled at him.

It was pretty to see.

He heard a clicking sound, and one moment later, the stranger was holding his butterfly knife in his face, the soft smile spreading into a grin.

That was when Billy Brock realized that all of this was real, and that whoever had found him was not a good person. He gargled, and tried to scramble away, but his back hit solid stone. The stranger had propped him up against the wall. And he kept wagging the knife at him, as if he was scolding him. On second thought, the face didn’t seem that refined and slender; it seemed skeletal.

“I believe this is yours,” the stranger crowed. It was a boy. He had a strange, low, hoarse voice.

“I don’t. Need it…” Billy’s head was lulling from one side to the other. Talking was hard. Only fear kept him from passing out. “Need. Hospital. Please.”

“I know.” His voice was almost friendly. He put his hand on Billy’s face, softly keeping it in place. Billy whined and tried to get away from the touch, but he couldn’t. The boy’s fingers trailed around his lips. He had rough hands that smelled like tobacco. “I will get you to a hospital.”

Billy’s heart made a little leap. “Y-Yes?”

“Yes. You’re not going to die tonight, Billy. I promise you that.”

Billy swallowed another mouthful of blood, nodding slowly. He didn’t care anymore if this person was good, or bad, he would’ve done anything for him. Anything. “Why d’you know…who I am?”

“Because I have been watching you. You, and them, and what they did to you. And I promise you another thing: you will kill them.”

At that, Billy’s heart started to pound even faster. Hope flickered in his eyes. He smiled faintly, lips twitching. “I will…?”

The stranger grinned again. He really looked like a skull, a skull with pitch black hair. It was freaky. And awesome.

“Yes.” His hoarse voice was a whisper. Another sweet promise.

Before the stranger took him into his arms and lifted him up, he closed the knife and slid it into his own pocket. “I will keep this for you. You will need it again.”