Memory 5: That little asshole broke my nose

[justfuckingtryit]

"Hey, kid," says someone behind him, and Lumen blinks up toward the sound like he's waking from a long, deep sleep.

There's a man standing above him, staring down. His breath is fogging the air, and he's got ratty fingerless gloves on his hands.

"Hey, kid," the man says again. "I seen you around, lately."

Lumen says, "Uh." His voice is rough, like he hasn't used it for a while. His brain feels like rusty machinery, creaking back to life. "Yeah."

The man looks one way and then the other, quick and kind of furtive. He takes a step in closer. "Me and my buddies, we was hoping you could join our little club."

"Club?" says Lumen, and the word feels slow and stupid in his mouth. For the first time he notices that there are other men – two of them, loitering near the bench.

He feels something prickle at the base of his neck – something like fear, strong enough to cut through the apathy.

"Sure," says the man with the ratty gloves. "You just pay a little entry fee, and you're one of the gang. What do you say?"

Lumen says, "I don't –" and makes to stand.

A hand clamps down hard on his shoulder and shoves him back down onto the bench.

Suddenly, Lumen's heart is going about a thousand miles an hour. Suddenly, he can't remember why he thought it was a good idea to stay here in the first place.

"You don't know how you ever got by without us, right?" says the man. "Well, ain't that sweet."

He gives a nod, and one of his friends creeps up around the side. He takes hold of Lumen's backpack, and when his fingers close around the worn green fabric, Lumen doesn’t think about the money. All he can think is that his stuff is in there. The photo and the spoon and the bookmark and – and all of it.

Lumen shoots straight back up to his feet with a shout. He says, "Don't even touch that," and this time, when he gets shoved back down, he's expecting it. This time, he springs up without a breath of recovery time, lunging for guy holding the bag.

His fist clips the guy's nose; the impact sends a rush of pain jolting up his arm, but Lumen's got more important things to worry about. He yanks the bag free and tucks it up against his chest, turning to run like hell.

He gets all of three steps before pain explodes in the back of his knee, and he goes down hard – skins his palms and bites his lip and bangs his forehead. He bangs it again when the guy with the ratty gloves grabs hold of his hair and slams him down into the concrete walkway by the bench.

The backpack's still under him; he feels it shift, like someone's trying to pull it free. His fingers clench down tight, and he holds on so hard his knuckles burn.

"Fuck it," says a new voice behind him, and thick hands grab Lumen by the throat like he's a rowdy kitten. They lift, and lift, and lift some more, until the air chokes off to a trickle.

Lumen bucks and squirms – draws a leg back to kick and finds another hand holding it. He lets go of the backpack to pry at the fingers around his neck. His lungs are burning; the edges of his vision are starting to go grey.

"That little asshole," another voice is saying, somewhere in the distance. "That little asshole broke my nose."

The hands drop Lumen. He hits the ground like a sack of flour, coughing and retching and trying to breathe.

"Want a go?" says the guy with the thick hands, and a voice growls back, "Damn straight I do."

Something collides with Lumen's side, sharp and sudden, and he groans and tries to roll away. It comes again, heavy impact, and when he makes to shove himself back up to his hands and knees, something plants itself in the middle of his back, bearing down.

The air leaves him in a rush; this time, when the blows come, he can't pull away.

"Get off me," says Lumen, and scrabbles at the boot that's pinning him. But it's like steel, hard and immovable, and it holds him in place while the other guy kicks at him, pain spreading up his side like spilled ink.

It feels like ages before the man above him says, "That oughtta do it," and leaves off.

The pressure lifts from Lumen's chest, and he curls sideways, then forces himself up to hands and knees. He spits blood onto the walkway and lifts his head, shaky, to watch as the men turn to walk away.

And there it is: there's his backpack. The man with the ratty gloves is holding onto it.

Go, Lumen tells himself. Go right now.

He gets his legs up under him and pushes himself straight from his knees and into a wobbly sprint. There's a throbbing pain in his side with every step he takes, but that's okay. He can do this.

His fingers close over the rough fabric of the backpack, and the man holding it squawks in surprise as Lumen jerks it from his hand.

He doesn't even slow. He's got probably five feet of lead time before the startled calls turn into frenzied pursuit.

He can do this. All he has to do is clear the park and he can lose them in a side alley.

Lumen ducks his head and runs faster – feels something brush at the back of his jacket. It comes again – catches, and firms, and yanks him backward.

He curses – stumbles – goes down on one knee. He's already struggling to his feet again, but the hold on his jacket turns into a hold on his arms, tight enough to hurt. Lumen snaps his foot back, hard, hoping to catch the asshole straight between the legs.

He hits something, but there's just a hiss of pain; the grip doesn't falter.

Time seems to be slipping by in slow motion. The guy with the ratty gloves circles around in front of Lumen, and he peels off the gloves, one at a time.

"Oh, kid," he says, voice low like a prayer. "You're in so much trouble."

===

Don't, Lumen tells himself. Don't you dare cry. It's your fucking fault.

And it is; that's the hell of it.

If he'd just sucked it up and stayed where he was, he wouldn't be here right now, sitting on a curb in the middle of the night. His face feels hot and tender to the touch. His right eye's so swollen he can't see out of it, and his whole side feels like someone pounded it with a hammer. He's got no money, no jacket, no shoes; it was all stripped off him after the beating, while he lay barely conscious on the ground.

His backpack's long gone, and the keepsakes inside it. They probably won't even be sold. He's sure they're sitting on a trash heap somewhere, waiting to go to the dump, and that's his fault, too.

Don't, says that voice in his mind again, and Lumen bites down on his split lip, hard. He waits until his eyes stop burning, and he takes a shaky breath in.

He needs to do – something.

He can't stay here. The pain's washed away the fog that's been settled over his thoughts for the past week, and for the first time, he takes a look at this – at himself – with something close to clarity.

He needs to go back.

The phone number for his foster parents was in his backpack along with everything else, and he's not sure he can find the place again, if he needs to. When he showed up on the doorstep, the number on the wall was the last thing on his mind.

And anyway – anyway, they're probably pissed. He took a lot of money before he took off. Odds are good, they don't want him back. They might even call the cops on him.

But he could go home.

He's sure the couch is gone, by now, and some new family's probably in talks to start renting. But Ms. M is next door. She'd let him in. She'd sit Lumen down and make him the tea that he doesn't particularly like, and let him use her shower.

He can picture it like a scene from a movie he's watched too many times: curled up in her big brown chair with some true crime show on the tv, a mug warm between his palms. He can hear her voice, low and kind of scratchy, saying from the kitchen, "Lumen? Your mom's on the phone."

But that call's still never coming.

The thought hits him like a sledgehammer, and he recoils from it hard.

It stings his eyes – twists his stomach – and before he knows he means to, Lumen leans forward and retches into the gutter. He heaves until nothing comes up anymore, spits and wipes the back of his hand over his mouth. He's shaking all over.

Stop, Lumen tells himself, harshly. Stop it.

But he can't. The thought of walking up the steps to Ms. M's door aches in his lungs, a dull pain that settles in and squeezes. He can't.

So don't do it, Lumen thinks, fiercely. Just do something else. Get up, and get moving, and stop sitting here falling apart like some little kid, because that's not helping anyone.

It's true. It's not helping him, and it's not going to help the shop owner who'll show up in an hour or two to open the store and find Lumen sitting on the curb out front, looking like he's been trampled by a behemoth.

It might help those assholes who took his stuff, if they come back for round two, but honestly – honestly, fuck those guys.

Lumen sniffs, and wipes at his face.

The shaking's died down a little, enough that he can tell himself the rest is from the cold.
Get up, and get moving – just do something else.

He thinks he can handle that.