Page 117 of Vile Bastards
I take out my sewing kit, organizing and reorganizing the needles with an anxious quiver in my fingertips. I’ve refreshed the batrachotoxin on my thimble, and the cap is screwed firmly in place, awaiting its next victim.
Footsteps approach, causing me to lift my head up.
A boy is coming toward me with a small posse in tow. I recognize him from this morning because he’s wearing a sweatshirt advertising a website dedicated to the most disturbing of pornographic acts. Brain bleach, once again, is a thing I wish existed. I want to scrub my thoughts with a Brillo pad.
“What a faggot,” the ingrate sneers, laughing as if his joke is beyond hysterical. I sit up straight, sliding the thimble on my thumb, just in case. Even at Prescott High, I’m not sure that murdering a student in broad daylight is a favorable idea.
I fit a needle into the cork under the metal thumbnail of my thimble, and I wait.
“Look at that faggot with his sewing kit.” He moves up to me and smirks, his idiot friends clustered around him.
“I advise you to step back and maintain a minimum three-foot cushion between yourself and me.” I remain calm, even as my annoyance ratchets up.
“What are you gonna do, faggot?” he taunts, and I sigh. Can he think up no other way to insult me? “Crochet me a doily, faggot?”
Just that then?
“These are sewing needles, designed for working with leather. They can’t crochet a goddamn thing, you colossal dunce.” My temper is getting the better of me. I do my best to think about Scarlett—somehow she’s become the one and only bright spot in my life—but it isn’t working because if there’s one thing I have little tolerance for, it’s stupid.
The guy laughs again, and I sigh heavily. When he lunges for me, I react by rising to my feet and turning, moving out of his way and simultaneously shoving the needle into his abdomen. It goes in, smooth as a hot knife through butter.
I shiver with pleasure and a simultaneous horror. I like how easily I can punish an ignorant little punk like this, but also … I had to touch him. As he chokes oddly and slams into the empty spot on the bench where I was just sitting, I carefully check for any spots of blood on my thimble or bare fingertips.
None.
Thank goodness.
I very quickly remove an antiseptic wipe to clean my fingers.
His friends come for me next, and I duck one punch, only to come up and slam my fist into the face of another boy. This time, I do see blood on my hands, spinning and knocking another guy’s legs out from under him.
The leader of these idiots is making odd gagging sounds and clutching at his stomach.
“You should probably go to the hospital and have the needle removed; it’s making its way to your intestines now.” At least, that was my goal. Who knows? It could puncture any number of organs or just sit inside of him like a two-inch long metal splinter.
The other boys charge me again, but the one in front ends up clotheslined, knocked to his back on the ground by none other than Adrian Arden Lawless.
The remaining boys stumble to stops and go still as Widow squats down beside the guy that’s moaning and whining on his back.
“Touch the new kid again without my permission, and I’ll fuck your car up first and your balls next. Stand up.” Widow grabs the boy’s shoulder and yanks him to his feet as I stand there and shudder, picking my fingerless gloves off and tossing them in the nearest trash can.
I’m gagging and choking as I continue to wipe my hands down, dousing them in copious amounts of hand sanitizer.
Fortunately, I have another pair of gloves in my pocket—these have inexpertly stitched hearts on the backs—and I slip them on.
The leather gloves I used to toss like trash are two hundred dollars a pair. I can’t afford such things anymore. I stare down at my dry and chapped fingertips, flaky from frequent over-washing, and I allow Widow to handle a situation that I could’ve easily wrapped up by myself.
But at least his interference allows me to focus on my hygiene instead.
“What the fuck is wrong with him?” Widow asks, shoving the kid he just picked up away from him and moving over to stand in front of the boy with limited knowledge of the English language.
“Oh, I have no idea,” I lie, moving back over to stand beside my new friend. “Perhaps he should break his porn addiction and study harder.”
“Screw you, you faggot,” he yowls, moaning and rocking. Honestly, the latter action is probably making things worse, not better. “I don’t feel so good.”
“Like I said, call an ambulance or you might die.” I shrug because, as far as I’m concerned, I’ve paid my dues to this boy, and then I turn to walk away.
