Quincy Wrote
Here's Some Things Quincy Wrote
First One.
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I figured the night was pretty much a declaratory shitter. Kicked out of my own dorm. Hadn't eaten in anything in a week. It was getting to the point where I could hear my own stomach shrinking. So could the guy next to me. That squirming squish of organs that made conversations stop and eyebrows raise. I was able to ignore it. My watch was beeping. That meant the hour had changed. I pressed the little metal knob that lit up the digits. 1:00 in the morning. At this time of day, it's hard to see that much in front of you. Luckily Sr William College Dipshit invested in streetlights across the campus, illuminating the rain splashed sidewalk just enough for me to avoid puddles.
Can't stand this weather. Just cold enough to need a jacket. I didn't have one. I sighed, half out of exasperation, half just because I wanted to see my breath in the air. A breath of white smoke exhumed and floated away. The soles of my shoes were beginning to slosh. The squeaking splursh of the water in my shoes soaked my socks. It didn't bother me as much as the wet patch on the bottom of my pant legs. Can't stand that.
To my left, the townhouse is still booming it's insufferable drone of the bass, playing too loudly out of some lacrosse scholarship blonde-haired Brent. The only thing more irritating than his frosted hair was his own abrasive personality. Plenty of kids partying there tonight. I'm reminded of my own personal philosophy; "The Party is where the Douche is." Tomorrow morning I'll hear of 3 fights. One broken coffee table. One broken hand. One fractured jawline. Crazy world. Thought parties were for fun. Becoming more like shit-bringers.
The townhouse disappears from my line of vision and now I'm near the library. I can smell smoke. Nicotine. Tobacco. Drifting kids ignoring the no-smoking signs to avoid the shit-bringers of the Brents. Sounds like better company. I take a minute to rest against the hand-rail that leads into the bookstore. I pull myself up. To be honest, I probably would have just sat their day-dreaming, working out how to get back into my room (or just waiting the 30 minutes it would take Shane and that un-lucky new girl to finish what they were doing) but I didn't have time to think of anything interesting before I heard a girl screaming. Eyebrows raise. Heart rate increases. Eyes immediately start scanning. No one to the left. No one in the doorway. Then I hear a man’s voice.
“Come ahn just come back upstairs and it will be fine”
His pronunciation has a near slur. I don’t wait to hear a response before I peer around the corner. Beautiful girl. Blonde hair. Blue top. Great ****. I hate myself for that last thought, but move on.
“I swear to god Derek get the **** away from me right now!”
Pitch raised. Girl is serious. I look around yet again. No one is anywhere near us. I wonder if I’m relieved that I’m the only one. No competition for hero-status. Then again - what the **** can I do about it? I waste so much time thinking of this shit that I miss the reason why Pretty Blonde slaps this guy. Attention diverted. Rookie mistake. Do I step in? Save this girl? Save her from what? ******* boyfriend? That’s the plan. I’ll go save her, she’ll thank me, and then **** this guy tomorrow.
Terrific.
When “Derek” slaps her, my tunnel vision breaks. Won’t stand for that. I step out of the darkness of the library overhang and my eyes meet his. This guy could beat the shit out of me. Football player. Lineman probably. Smart thing to do would be run. But not this time. He’s holding something.
Red cup.
Must be drunk. Odds stacked more in my favor now. Sober as a bird. Is that an expression?
“The ****’r yoo doin here man?”
Perfect. His eyes have that same rounded-ness of someone completely unaware. The same guy at a party who is so drunk he’s so happy to see you - even when he doesn’t know you.
“You just hit a girl.”
Pretty blonde girl looks over. Her cheek burns red. Mascara drips down her face. Smears her foundation. Pretty Blonde with great **** isn’t having the best day. I might make it worse.
Big drunk lineman isn’t one with words. He stumbles. Wheezes. Spits on the concrete. Splashes a puddle with his mucus. This sort of behavior is just disgusting. I start to tell him that when he runs straight at me. He’s seeing double. His vision is spinning. I’m still intimidated - try to decide how to react when his shoulder slams into my stomach. Air leaves my lungs in a gasp. Night gets colder. I lose sight of Pretty Blonde as I’m slammed onto the ground. Shirt probably torn. I loved this shirt. Remember to tuck in my head to prevent reflexive crack on the concrete. I would have winced when I heard the sick thud of big drunks face slamming the pavement if I didn’t hate him so much. Look how judge-mental I’m being. I only just met this guy.
No - wait. **** him.
I’m able to get up quicker than he is. He’s on all fours, and I savor the second before I swing full force with my left foot against his ribs. My shoes give off a comedic “slosh.” Still filled with water. God that’s so uncomfortable.
My kick doesn’t seem to do much. This is apparent when his right hand connects with the side of my face. His knuckles don’t taste good. Hairy. This guy is not attractive. Thoughts race as things go white for a sec. Snap out of it. Start a retaliatory right hook of my own - hit in the face again. This time with his fat elbow. I can hear a tooth crack. ****. As I go down hard on my ass, I wonder if it was one of the front ones.
I look up from sitting squat on the ground and see this big tank of a drunk douche mumbling over his words trying to talk to Pretty Blonde off-screen. He’s forgotten about me already. I should be insulted - but I think it’s just a testament to how good the liquor was he was drinking tonight. I think to ask him. Instead, I kick him in the balls and don’t hold back.
There’s a face someone makes when they are surprised. Their eyes sort of bring on this explosive quality. They seem to stretch out and grow larger - like a caricature of the face they frame. I smile at his reaction, and wince as air hits my now hideously chipped canine. That’s a tooth by the way in case you didn’t know it.
Big man goes down to his knees. He’s done now. I squeeze my right hand into a fist until the skin turns white before cracking his nose crooked. Blood spurts and splashes my wrist. Gross. Also warm. I feel like I can smell it. I hit him again with my left just because I don’t know what to do next. Big drunk hit’s the ground. My vision blurs for a minute again. I tongue the side of my mouth - blood. Lots of it. Tastes like metal and salt. I spit. Just like him. I hate myself for a moment - then decide to take it out on the unconscious boy in front of me.
I kneel over him - aware that Pretty Blonde is saying something to me. She’s either calling me a hero, or asking for a cigarette. Or she’s screaming. I ignore her for now. The big broken behemoth is wheezing again. Not because he’s so blackout drunk. It’s because his nose is shaped like an “L” now. As I’m crouched over him, I wonder how he got into this school. What kind of scholarship. I feel the urge to hit him again. And again. Until all the bones in my right hand break. And then I’d use the left. I could do all these things to him. I realize how lucky I am that this guy was drunk. He’d murder me if he recognized me later. Then I’d probably die.
Instead of hitting him again, I stand up. I look at the Pretty Blonde girl. Should say something here.
Instead I turn around and head back in the direction I came from. Shane should be done ****ing by now, and I could get some sleep. But I should probably wash the blood off of my hand first.
No - wait. I should check to see if my shirt is torn as bad as I think. I love this shirt.