The Lamb

This is a story I wrote about a year ago for a short story contest. It had to be under a thousand words, and I barely squeezed by with that. I haven't edited it since then. I like the story and I thought others might too.

“Come on Pansy! Peter Pansy Peter Pansy!” Thomas was chanting at the top of his lungs now. Enunciating each word so bluntly that he was showering the few teenagers standing at the front of the crowded circle with hot spit. They didn’t seem to notice, however, because they were chanting along with him. In fact, from the ground it sounded like everyone in town had come outside to watch the bloodshed.

            I rubbed at the stiff bump just above my left eye. The sickly purple color looked like the lipstick left behind after a kiss from your grandma. Only this mark was given by Thomas O’Neill’s stone fist. The parking lot of Liscum High had transformed into a blurry gladiatorial arena, and I was its newest sacrifice. Funny thing was I chose to be the lamb headed to slaughter.

            Shaking away most of the initial pain I turned around achingly and could half-make out the form of Billy Hodges. The Stickman of Liscum. Arms and legs so skinny he looked like a crude drawing that a person makes when they’re in a hurry to draw people. All lines and no curves. Pair that with his rounded head full of too much knowledge for a small town in Missouri and you’ve got yourself what people around here like to call easy pickin’. He was the scheduled lamb. His bottom lip was still bleeding and his knee was speckled with gravel and blood. Thomas had given whatever kisses he could before the rest of the school walked outside to cheer him on.

            My memory was hazy, but well enough to ponder just how stupid I must be to throw myself in front of a twice held-back fridge like Thomas O’Neill, and all for the Stickman. My hearing was coming back slowly, but the only sound I could gather was the repeating Peter Pansy Peter Pansy Peter Pansy. Laying all my weight onto my hands I made another glance to Billy who was noticeably shaking. The meat conveyor was about to grind me to pieces and he could see that he was next in line. I tried to smile, but my face felt numb. I clenched my jaw and let the ringing in my head drown out the chanting. Straightening my legs and raising my chest the crowd fell to an astonished hush as I staggered to keep my balance. I was no stickman, but there was no heavyweight championship belt in my future. I raised my fists anyway.

            Thomas was still chanting. He spun around in place with his head and arms raised high into the air like Rocky Balboa. At first unaware of the silenced crowd. He went to high five the gang of crones behind him. That was when they pointed the lanky kid standing behind him. Ready for round two. Thomas’ torso turned first, and his feet followed in tandem. He wiped the small amount of blood on his right knuckle across his red letterman’s jacket. “What do you think you’re doing Peter Pansy?” His crones laughed, but only a small portion on onlookers chuckled with them. Most looked both inspired and afraid.

            My head was booming but my mouth managed to spill out, “I’m drawing a line in the sand.” My body was wavering back and forth with fatigue. The crowd looked confused and impressed, but mostly blood-thirsty. Patiently waiting for my skull to get kicked in.

            I could see the gears in Thomas’ head grind for a moment as he looked at the ground and saw no actual sand or line drawn in it. His face turned skeptical, “Man, you are one stupid idiot. Ain’t nobody going to help you, man. You is all alone.” He and his Neanderthals snickered again.

            “Maybe. Maybe not.” I inspected the audience encircling me and could see that no one was coming to my aid. My eyes fell to the quavering feet below me in embarrassment, but rose again in stubbornness. I spoke again, “Looks like you’re right Tom.” My voice gained some durability and toughness, “But at least there’s somebody here that is willing to stand against you. No matter how hard you hit me I’m going to stand back up.”

            “That sounds good to me Pansy.” He threw his fists up in a boxing stance. “You keep standing up and I get to keep knocking you down. Sounds like fun to me Pansy-boy.”

            My face was hot again, but not from the shiner. This is passionate anger burning inside. Refueling my muscles and hardening my fists. I dug my right foot into the ground and made a hard stride toward the behemoth. Left fist reeled far back and cocked. Ready to explode like fireworks over Thomas’s ugly mug.

            Before I was fully aware of what I was seeing, my sight left Thomas and fell to the speeding zoom of hard pavement. Only this sudden motion came from behind me. Yes, I was pushed from behind and nearly trampled. Throwing my hands in front of me I caught myself and quickly looked up for the freight train that passed. My bewilderment was so great that I was seeing through both eyes. The Stickman of Liscum, skinny Billy Hodges rushed by me and clocked Thomas across the mouth with a solid blow for a 120-pound teenage boy. The crowd, and I, were frozen. Even Thomas looked complexed. He rubbed a large hand up and down his cheek and huffed fire at the small boy. “Big mistake, Sticky.” He lurched an arm back, but before it could be thrown he was flooded by a wave of people as they took him to the ground. I was outside of the mosh pit now, and liked it that way. Who knew what they were doing to him in there? All I could make out was the roaring chant of my name. I picked myself from the pavement, dusted off my jeans, and began to walk home. Once a lamb. Becoming the shepherd.