QuixoteDelMar
August 2nd, 2018, 07:52 AM
I saw the title on the Literary Maneuvers for July, and clearly, I missed the cutoff there. But I was inspired, and took an afternoon to jam this out. Read, review, do your thing. Or not. I only think I'm the boss. :icon_cheesygrin:
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Danny got his first scar when he was six years old. He'd been playing in the alley behind his house, and cut his knee on a broken bottle. It had bled horribly, but his parents were too busy fighting to notice. When his father found the stained jeans in the hamper, he yelled at Danny for ruining them. “I’ll kill you if you do it again!”
It wasn't an impressive scar, but it did teach him an important lesson - that was the day Danny met the devil.
The next one was even less important. An appendectomy scar on his abdomen. His parents weren't even there for that one; they were out at some stupid party. The only person who visited him in the hospital was his neighbor, a girl his age who brought him homework. Homework, and flowers.
Then there was the little crescent on his shin, from where that dog bit him when he was twelve. To be fair, he had hopped the fence into that yard, so the dog wasn't at fault. He wrapped it himself, and it would have been fine, except he re-opened it a week later doing the same stupid thing. “It’s fine.” His mother whispered, “Good boys don’t cry.”
There was that scar on his knuckles, too, from the incident with the train. He was experimenting with rings - he bought a really cool skull-and-crossbones ring at a flea market. But when he tried to jump that train, his ring got caught and he had to rip it off before he got pulled under. It had felt like he had ripped his finger off, until they cleared away the blood and he saw he was only missing a chunk of flesh. Danny doesn't wear rings anymore.
And the scar from that time he broke his arm? He was fourteen, and discovering girls. In fact, he was discovering a keen interest in seeing them naked. That’s why he was climbing the trellis outside the dorm. Someone spotted him and called out. He wasn't quick enough to scramble down, slipped ducking something heavy, and fell two stories. It hurt, but he got away. When the school called his parents, he heard the same thing: “It’s fine, it’s fine. I’ll kill you if you do it again. Don't cry.”
The scar from that bike accident was nasty too, a pair of smooth, shiny lines on his forearm. He'd fallen off doing something stupid on the train tracks and burned his arm on a rail. He must have slid about twenty feet before stopping, and he got a concussion from it too.
The next two he got around the same time - one from a barbed wire fence, the other from the bull on the other side. The one from the fence needed stitches in the end, and he couldn't use his hand for a week. The other one was from the bull's horn in his thigh, and it got him crutches and a very stern lecture about stupid behavior. He never did tip that cow, either.
But out of all of them it was the last scar he loved the most, the one he was most proud of. It split his eyebrow in two, just missing the eye. He walked in on his dad, drunk, his pants down, and the neighbor girl. She was already bleeding from her lip and her eye was turning purple. Danny didn't think. He didn't even know what was happening. He just knew that when it was over, there was blood in his eyes and his dad didn't look at all familiar any more. And his hands? They hurt like hell. Again.
He looked around, looked for the girl. She was there, in the corner, too scared to even pull her pants up. Danny wanted to reach out, to comfort her, to tell her it was okay. But he couldn't. He couldn't think of anything to say. If it happens again... He sat back, head in his hands, and muttered the words ringing in his head.
“It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine,” He said.
“Dead boys don't cry.”
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Danny got his first scar when he was six years old. He'd been playing in the alley behind his house, and cut his knee on a broken bottle. It had bled horribly, but his parents were too busy fighting to notice. When his father found the stained jeans in the hamper, he yelled at Danny for ruining them. “I’ll kill you if you do it again!”
It wasn't an impressive scar, but it did teach him an important lesson - that was the day Danny met the devil.
The next one was even less important. An appendectomy scar on his abdomen. His parents weren't even there for that one; they were out at some stupid party. The only person who visited him in the hospital was his neighbor, a girl his age who brought him homework. Homework, and flowers.
Then there was the little crescent on his shin, from where that dog bit him when he was twelve. To be fair, he had hopped the fence into that yard, so the dog wasn't at fault. He wrapped it himself, and it would have been fine, except he re-opened it a week later doing the same stupid thing. “It’s fine.” His mother whispered, “Good boys don’t cry.”
There was that scar on his knuckles, too, from the incident with the train. He was experimenting with rings - he bought a really cool skull-and-crossbones ring at a flea market. But when he tried to jump that train, his ring got caught and he had to rip it off before he got pulled under. It had felt like he had ripped his finger off, until they cleared away the blood and he saw he was only missing a chunk of flesh. Danny doesn't wear rings anymore.
And the scar from that time he broke his arm? He was fourteen, and discovering girls. In fact, he was discovering a keen interest in seeing them naked. That’s why he was climbing the trellis outside the dorm. Someone spotted him and called out. He wasn't quick enough to scramble down, slipped ducking something heavy, and fell two stories. It hurt, but he got away. When the school called his parents, he heard the same thing: “It’s fine, it’s fine. I’ll kill you if you do it again. Don't cry.”
The scar from that bike accident was nasty too, a pair of smooth, shiny lines on his forearm. He'd fallen off doing something stupid on the train tracks and burned his arm on a rail. He must have slid about twenty feet before stopping, and he got a concussion from it too.
The next two he got around the same time - one from a barbed wire fence, the other from the bull on the other side. The one from the fence needed stitches in the end, and he couldn't use his hand for a week. The other one was from the bull's horn in his thigh, and it got him crutches and a very stern lecture about stupid behavior. He never did tip that cow, either.
But out of all of them it was the last scar he loved the most, the one he was most proud of. It split his eyebrow in two, just missing the eye. He walked in on his dad, drunk, his pants down, and the neighbor girl. She was already bleeding from her lip and her eye was turning purple. Danny didn't think. He didn't even know what was happening. He just knew that when it was over, there was blood in his eyes and his dad didn't look at all familiar any more. And his hands? They hurt like hell. Again.
He looked around, looked for the girl. She was there, in the corner, too scared to even pull her pants up. Danny wanted to reach out, to comfort her, to tell her it was okay. But he couldn't. He couldn't think of anything to say. If it happens again... He sat back, head in his hands, and muttered the words ringing in his head.
“It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine,” He said.
“Dead boys don't cry.”