Trip
It was just a bad word.
But words can hurt. Words can be destructive. And, sometimes, words can kill. He’d always known that.
It was scrawled across the fence, stamped in purple paint atop a cracked, mildewing backdrop. Trip stopped walking to stare at it, his backpack sliding from his shoulder onto the pavement.
He didn’t know why he stopped. It wasn’t like he’d never heard the word before. But there was something about the way it looked on the fence that offended his senses—six letters dripping a sloppy tattoo down the wood, grating into his nerves.
He knew those letters. He’d learned them before anyone had ever taught him his “ABC’s”. For most of his life, those letters had been his A, his B, and his C—repeated in his head as he drifted to sleep, reminding him of who he was when he awoke every morning. They were a cadence chanted before the first fist was swung and after the last kick had landed.
But to see them on the fence made him feel exposed, as if someone had yanked out his insides and splashed them on a banner for anyone to dissect. He imagined people walking by, seeing the word and instantly knowing him. He felt their scorn, could picture their sneers as they whispered his name.
His shell had been broken, and the fence was the altar upon which the pieces lay.
He wanted to walk away, but the word wouldn’t let him. It pounded into him, repeating the story of his life back to him, conjuring up scenes buried in the back of his memories and pushing them to the forefront with searing clarity. His head throbbed with a relentless onslaught of images and voices taunting him, daring him to fight back.
Almost of its own will, his hand reached down to his backpack and pulled at the zipper. It fumbled through the contents, knocking aside textbooks and stacks of papers to get to the collection of markers and pens clustered at the bottom. His fingers closed around a marker, and he advanced on the fence, ready to do battle.
One letter.
That’s all he’d need to destroy. One letter and the rest would fall. And when they fell, maybe they would take a part of him with them. He hoped so. He looked down at the weapon in his hand.
A Wite-Out pen. Perfect.
Lurching at the fence, he stabbed at the first letter. Nothing came out of the pen. He gave it a fierce shake and squeezed the base, but it remained dry.
Hostage to a frantic urgency, he snatched at his backpack. He dug through the bag, and his eyes fell on a carton of cigarettes and lighter that he’d snuck past school security. He grabbed the lighter.
The flame touched the tip of the pen. Trip squeezed. And what came out was more than he could’ve hoped for.
Liquid fire squirted from the pen. It shot toward the fence, dousing one of the letters in a blazing circle. A distorted “G” melted into ash. The brittle wood embraced the flames and soon was engulfed in a crackling inferno.
And as the fence burned, so did Trip’s world.
A world of alienation and loathing died in black wisps that escaped toward the sun. Its gasping breath blew against his face, and his tears kissed it a bittersweet farewell. Streams scorched his cheeks as years of pain drained from him, and the empty space was filled with a comforting warmth.
He turned away.
A girl stood across the street watching him, her mouth a gaping hole of shock. He recognized her from his lunch period: one of the Beautiful Ones. Wiping his face, he waved a soggy hand at her.
She blinked.
He ducked his head and walked away, a bubble of something he’d never felt before swelling in his chest.
She would tell. People would come for him. He’d most likely get expelled, maybe even arrested. His folks would have a meltdown.
He smiled.
Maybe in another life, another world, he would’ve cared.
He laughed.
It was just a bad word. But sometimes, one word is all it takes.
Stay tuned to read more about Trip and where this turn in life takes him in Misfits Rising…
It was just a bad word.
But words can hurt. Words can be destructive. And, sometimes, words can kill. He’d always known that.
It was scrawled across the fence, stamped in purple paint atop a cracked, mildewing backdrop. Trip stopped walking to stare at it, his backpack sliding from his shoulder onto the pavement.
He didn’t know why he stopped. It wasn’t like he’d never heard the word before. But there was something about the way it looked on the fence that offended his senses—six letters dripping a sloppy tattoo down the wood, grating into his nerves.
He knew those letters. He’d learned them before anyone had ever taught him his “ABC’s”. For most of his life, those letters had been his A, his B, and his C—repeated in his head as he drifted to sleep, reminding him of who he was when he awoke every morning. They were a cadence chanted before the first fist was swung and after the last kick had landed.
But to see them on the fence made him feel exposed, as if someone had yanked out his insides and splashed them on a banner for anyone to dissect. He imagined people walking by, seeing the word and instantly knowing him. He felt their scorn, could picture their sneers as they whispered his name.
His shell had been broken, and the fence was the altar upon which the pieces lay.
He wanted to walk away, but the word wouldn’t let him. It pounded into him, repeating the story of his life back to him, conjuring up scenes buried in the back of his memories and pushing them to the forefront with searing clarity. His head throbbed with a relentless onslaught of images and voices taunting him, daring him to fight back.
Almost of its own will, his hand reached down to his backpack and pulled at the zipper. It fumbled through the contents, knocking aside textbooks and stacks of papers to get to the collection of markers and pens clustered at the bottom. His fingers closed around a marker, and he advanced on the fence, ready to do battle.
One letter.
That’s all he’d need to destroy. One letter and the rest would fall. And when they fell, maybe they would take a part of him with them. He hoped so. He looked down at the weapon in his hand.
A Wite-Out pen. Perfect.
Lurching at the fence, he stabbed at the first letter. Nothing came out of the pen. He gave it a fierce shake and squeezed the base, but it remained dry.
Hostage to a frantic urgency, he snatched at his backpack. He dug through the bag, and his eyes fell on a carton of cigarettes and lighter that he’d snuck past school security. He grabbed the lighter.
The flame touched the tip of the pen. Trip squeezed. And what came out was more than he could’ve hoped for.
Liquid fire squirted from the pen. It shot toward the fence, dousing one of the letters in a blazing circle. A distorted “G” melted into ash. The brittle wood embraced the flames and soon was engulfed in a crackling inferno.
And as the fence burned, so did Trip’s world.
A world of alienation and loathing died in black wisps that escaped toward the sun. Its gasping breath blew against his face, and his tears kissed it a bittersweet farewell. Streams scorched his cheeks as years of pain drained from him, and the empty space was filled with a comforting warmth.
He turned away.
A girl stood across the street watching him, her mouth a gaping hole of shock. He recognized her from his lunch period: one of the Beautiful Ones. Wiping his face, he waved a soggy hand at her.
She blinked.
He ducked his head and walked away, a bubble of something he’d never felt before swelling in his chest.
She would tell. People would come for him. He’d most likely get expelled, maybe even arrested. His folks would have a meltdown.
He smiled.
Maybe in another life, another world, he would’ve cared.
He laughed.
It was just a bad word. But sometimes, one word is all it takes.
Stay tuned to read more about Trip and where this turn in life takes him in Misfits Rising…
It was just a bad word.
But words can hurt. Words can be destructive. And, sometimes, words can kill. He’d always known that.
It was scrawled across the fence, stamped in purple paint atop a cracked, mildewing backdrop. Trip stopped walking to stare at it, his backpack sliding from his shoulder onto the pavement.
He didn’t know why he stopped. It wasn’t like he’d never heard the word before. But there was something about the way it looked on the fence that offended his senses—six letters dripping a sloppy tattoo down the wood, grating into his nerves.
He knew those letters. He’d learned them before anyone had ever taught him his “ABC’s”. For most of his life, those letters had been his A, his B, and his C—repeated in his head as he drifted to sleep, reminding him of who he was when he awoke every morning. They were a cadence chanted before the first fist was swung and after the last kick had landed.
But to see them on the fence made him feel exposed, as if someone had yanked out his insides and splashed them on a banner for anyone to dissect. He imagined people walking by, seeing the word and instantly knowing him. He felt their scorn, could picture their sneers as they whispered his name.
His shell had been broken, and the fence was the altar upon which the pieces lay.
He wanted to walk away, but the word wouldn’t let him. It pounded into him, repeating the story of his life back to him, conjuring up scenes buried in the back of his memories and pushing them to the forefront with searing clarity. His head throbbed with a relentless onslaught of images and voices taunting him, daring him to fight back.
Almost of its own will, his hand reached down to his backpack and pulled at the zipper. It fumbled through the contents, knocking aside textbooks and stacks of papers to get to the collection of markers and pens clustered at the bottom. His fingers closed around a marker, and he advanced on the fence, ready to do battle.
One letter.
That’s all he’d need to destroy. One letter and the rest would fall. And when they fell, maybe they would take a part of him with them. He hoped so. He looked down at the weapon in his hand.
A Wite-Out pen. Perfect.
Lurching at the fence, he stabbed at the first letter. Nothing came out of the pen. He gave it a fierce shake and squeezed the base, but it remained dry.
Hostage to a frantic urgency, he snatched at his backpack. He dug through the bag, and his eyes fell on a carton of cigarettes and lighter that he’d snuck past school security. He grabbed the lighter.
The flame touched the tip of the pen. Trip squeezed. And what came out was more than he could’ve hoped for.
Liquid fire squirted from the pen. It shot toward the fence, dousing one of the letters in a blazing circle. A distorted “G” melted into ash. The brittle wood embraced the flames and soon was engulfed in a crackling inferno.
And as the fence burned, so did Trip’s world.
A world of alienation and loathing died in black wisps that escaped toward the sun. Its gasping breath blew against his face, and his tears kissed it a bittersweet farewell. Streams scorched his cheeks as years of pain drained from him, and the empty space was filled with a comforting warmth.
He turned away.
A girl stood across the street watching him, her mouth a gaping hole of shock. He recognized her from his lunch period: one of the Beautiful Ones. Wiping his face, he waved a soggy hand at her.
She blinked.
He ducked his head and walked away, a bubble of something he’d never felt before swelling in his chest.
She would tell. People would come for him. He’d most likely get expelled, maybe even arrested. His folks would have a meltdown.
He smiled.
Maybe in another life, another world, he would’ve cared.
He laughed.
It was just a bad word. But sometimes, one word is all it takes.
Stay tuned to read more about Trip and where this turn in life takes him in Misfits Rising…
