“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said, standing above me. I shook my hand feebly at him, reaching, clawing for a way to get at him, to hurt him. To break him. It was pointless.
“It was pointless,” he said, grinding his boot on my temple. I could bearly move my hands; I twisted and grasped but I was spent. My arms didn’t move where I tried to place them, and my fingers bearly moved at all, regardless.
He stepped off my head and I rolled away from him as best I could. I got over onto my back and the pain in my hip stopped me from continuing to try and roll. I coughed and sputtered, and he leaned over me, bending down to look into my face.
The light focused around him then, white and hot, fuzzy around the edges— I could tell I was slipping out of consciousness.
“You’re not gonna pass out now, you little fuck,” he said.
And, in spite of my mind and body screaming back at me, “Yes, yes you are,” I stayed concious. I stayed with him.
“This is mine,” he said. “This moment is mine. I earned this.”
He reached down and grabbed my head with his hands. His giant hands reached easily around my head, and it was equally as easy for him to pick me up and stand me up against a wall.
My legs gave out and I slummped back down the wall— the hip screaming in pain again. Where he’d stabbed me. Kicked me, Burnt me, and then shot me. Not nessessarily in that order.
I was a mess. I could see that. I had no feeling— no sensation other than the pain in my hips. Why didn’t my body go into shock? I’d always belived the body was supposed to shut down in extreeme cases like this. Why did I have to be awake for this?
“I suppose you’re wondering why you have to be awake for this,” he said. He walked up to me, kicking one of my folded legs out from under his foot with his toe. He crouched and looked directly into my face.
“Because this is mine.” He laughed and I could feel his hot breath on my face. “This is my right. To make you see this. To make you feel this. You deserve this— and I deserve it more.”
The ringing in my ears abated for a second— as I realized that the single poke I’d taken at him— the single, awkward hamfisted haymaker I’d thrown durring the tussle that had left me this boroken and beaten, had connected.
I smiled and started to chuckle back at him— and he flinched. I had him. “Your lip,” I said.