Page 97 of Isaac

The football team begins their exodus from the locker room. Divested of their armor-like uniforms, they now seem more humankind, dressed in typical teenage attire rather than embedded war gear. Even so, Isaac can decipher the truthhidden beneath those facades—a mix of arrogance, egotism, and untreated self-absorption.

Isaac pretends to be on his phone while they bundle past him one by one or in pairs.

Somewhere in the vicinity of the locker room, he hears a muffled whimper that cuts through his racing thoughts. As usual, he chooses to ignore it.

"Stop," the voice trembles, feminine and laced with fear. Barely discernible.

Isaac believes he’s just hearing things. He has a big imagination. That’s how he’s been able to survive in that house for so long.

"Stop it!" the voice pleads again, this time very real.

Isaac wonders what it is. He knows the girls’ locker room is just around the corner. Maybe someone got hurt.

Curiosity pricks at his resolve, drawing him closer to the source—a strange call to witness another chapter of the school's hidden narrative. He edges toward the small hallway and listens. The voice comes from the football locker room, not from the one the girls use across the way, Isaac realizes when there’s another muffled cry followed by a thud.

What are you doing, Isaac?

Why do you care what this jerkwad Marcus does off the field?

And Isaac doesn’t want to care but something nags him from the inside.

He reads distress as he steps toward the locker room.

Peeking in, Isaac's eyes adjust to the sight. There she is, a girl from freshman year I see around sometimes. The two nameless dudes on the team pinned her back against the cold tile and are holding her by her shoulders. And Marcus, the fucking ringleader, stands there, plucking at her blouse buttons with his fingers.

"Let me go, or I'll tell the headmaster," the girl hisses out, her voice a mix of defiance and desperation.

Marcus laughs, a nasty sound devoid of humor. "Headmaster plays golf with my dad," he brags. "And I take what I want, sweetheart."

His hand moves down and he bunches up her skirt and shoves those meaty fingers between her legs.

Isaac feels something within himself fracture.

Isaac's heavy footfalls are a declaration of war as he crosses the room, propelled by a fury that burns hotter than the shame smoldering in his belly. The girl's eyes, wide and pleading, lock onto him.

"Let her go," Isaac commands, voice stripped to its rawest timbre.

Marcus turns, his smirk a grotesque mask of arrogance. "What the fuck are you doing here, faggot?"

"Let. Her. Go."

"Bitch wants to play hero," Marcus shouts at his buddies.

They laugh with him.

Isaac’s fingers curl into fists.

"Or maybe you’re jealous she's getting it first?" Marcus says suggestively. "Get in line up, pussy, if you’re here to get a taste of my dick too."

The insult slashes through Isaac like a blade, drawing forth an anger that taints his vision with shades of scarlet. Time slows, each second elongating as if pulled by the gravity of his wrath.

Isaac sheds his backpack, letting it hit the floor with a thud muted by the pounding of blood in his ears. His fist flies through the air, like a missile seeking destruction, and lands with a sickening crunch against Marcus's cheek.

Marcus staggers. His face twists into something ugly. "Motherfucker!" he yells at Isaac.

Then Marcus swings his hand, heavy and uncoordinated, like a bull charging at red. He misses. Isaac is precise. Fists fly, knuckles branding truths into flesh.

Somewhere in the corner of his eye, he can see the girl wrestling herself out of the asshole’s grip and darting out.

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