Page 2 of Pragma
I give him an annoyed grunt. Still alert, I grab the cigs again and light another one. Since I won’t be able to smoke again until tonight when I plan to run away, better get my fix full now.
I look at him as I take a long puff. Deep brown eyes, high cheekbones, and thick black hair, green at the tips.
“Did Apollo do that? Turn you into an extra from a zombie movie?” He raises an eyebrow at me as he slides a long piece of red gum inside his mouth. Cinnamon from the strong smell of it. His eyes flicker all over my face, lingering on my burned, deformed ear and the visible red skin.
I glare at him. People have been staring or avoiding my face for the last two weeks, especially when the bandages are off. I know I look like a fucking monster, but nobody has so blatantly and rudely said it to my face.
He smirks smugly at me as I feel all the muscles in my body stiffening.
“Fuck off!” My insult seems to excite him. Of all the people I could meet, it had to be this crazy motherfucker. I’m itching to turn his smiling face into a gelatinous mess, even though the burns on my left arm and hand are still aching.
Fuck it! I take a step toward him, but halt when he utters, “I wouldn’t do it, if I were you.”
“Why?” I hiss, wanting even more to punch him right in his arrogant mug.
“It wouldn’t be a fair fight…for you.”
I snort. He’s a little shorter and smaller than me. Does he think I’d lose because of my burns? I’ve had worse. Much worse.
I raise my fists, ready to show him how wrong he is, when two guys wearing black suits fill the smoking area entrance. They look at me then at the boy. One of them says something in a foreign language. It sounds Japanese. It reminds me of the owner of the small tobacco shop near the shithole I used to live in. When I went to buy cigarettes for my father, the old man was always sitting behind the counter watching a Samurai movie on his small TV.
The boy answers back. His tone is harsh and stern, like he’s the one in command. The two men bow and leave, moving a few feet away on the sidewalk. I can see the bulges on the side of their jackets; they are wearing guns. Growing up among thugs makes me easily spot things a fifteen-year-old shouldn’t be aware of.
Who the fuck is this guy?
“Still want to hit me?” he asks, chewing loudly on that gum.
“More than before,” I admit. My life is already shit, a little more won’t hurt that much.
He chuckles, the picture of carelessness. It makes sense even though nothing else does. He has two tooled-up men waiting to fuck me up, why would he be scared of a half-wounded freak like me?
“What’s your name?” When I don’t reply, he adds, “I saw you with that chick at the hospital entrance.” The social worker?“She was talking about youraccidentand future plans.” He emphasizes the word.
What did he hear? I try to remember what that bitch told me. I narrow my eyes suspiciously at him. “Did you follow me here?”
“Please. I just felt like second-hand smoking.”
So he did follow me here.
“Then you started promising blood and pain on the phone, and it got more interesting.” He pauses, his eyes moving between mine. “How about I give you a helping hand?”
I snort incredulously. Who the fuck is this guy? “A helping hand?”
“In taking out that fucker.”
“Apollo?” Is he joking? Fuck, he’s nuts. “Why?”
He makes a clicking sound with the gum in his mouth. “I have some festering energy to vent and a bloody bone to pick with him. I hate that prick with a vengeance.”
So it’s personal for him, as well. Apollo is a psycho who likes to hurt people; he has quite a few enemies. “Were you part of his gang?”
“Do I look that stupid to you?” A clear jab at me. It makes my hackles rise. “Fortunately, though, youwerepart of it. Having a guy who knows the gang’s weak points means sure victory for me in fucking his ugly face up.”
“Didn’t you hear the phone call? He wants to off me. He gave me these burns.” I wave my hand at my face and body.
“I’m not blind. You certainly didn’t end up in this hospital for the food. Plus, it’s impossible not to see your charred face.”
“Like you look better,” I cut him off, gritting my teeth against the horrible memory of the unbearable sensation of my skin melting, the awful burning smell, my excruciating cries. The agonizing realization that I was about to die. I didn’t, though.
