A Portrait of Pain

Ankle Biters

Word Count: 868 words

The very sun that caused Mr. Hewson to crow like a rooster on having stepped outside his patio barefoot also beat down on young Timmy's head as he trudged across Lane Four.

His little head on the baked road, wagging faintly with each step he took. If you were an observant individual — as Mr. Hewson had had to become — you would have noticed Timmy was not walking like he usually did on his way home from school. [Mr. Hewson had been a consistent spectator of these walks for a considerable duration of time now.] There was an error to his walk. An anomaly. In fact, what Timmy was doing could not be described as walking at all. He was trudging, and that was that.

In truth Timmy was bruised. On an emotional level, yes, but there was moreover a bruise on his rear end. Timmy, of course, could not see it. But he knew it was there, for the bruise was hurting him a great deal in a manner unique to bruises. And why should he not be bruised on his delicate little buttock (as Mr. Hewson would no doubt have put it)? After all, had not Abby and her gang of gorgons pantsed and wedgied him bearing that exact goal in mind?

[Mr. Hewson had studied wedgies extensively, and with a good amount of zeal. He had not just watched but observed numerous children having their underwear yanked upwards forcefully from the behind. He had, in his time, been a victim of a few wedgies himself. Little had his bullies known that they were not only failing to humiliate him but providing him a source of arousal besides.]

Obviously Abby's gorgons were not really gorgons. They were human, and human children at that. Furthermore, they were mean, which made them mean human children. Which, naturally, made them desirable articles to Mr. Hewson. However, cautious as he was, there was a certain limit to the kind of prizes even a person like Mr. Hewson could steal. Thus he had to settle for Timmy.

Young, troubled Timmy, trudging. He'd a babyish, boyish face, a face that was fair. Face of the kind that grows handsome over time. Unfortunately, if given time for growth, that very face would turn rather repellent for Mr. Hewson. Hence it was not to be helped that today was The Day. His testicles practically decided The Day by intermutual consultation, genial mutuality aside. Mr. Hewson in this was helpless.

Poor bruised juvenile stripling headed home, mind full of rancid thoughts, yet so unmindful. Tears boiled behind his beautiful, beautiful eyes. Fat, fat tears, bearing an alacrity towards touching the boy's flesh to rival Mr. Hewson's. They were tears born out of many things: out of shame, fear, anger, and a thousand different sentiments which lay huddled without a label. Nobody quite understood the nature of these tears like Mr. Hewson did, for he himself was a man whose deeds were guided by unspeakable sentiments.

Lane Four was a quiet lane. A black, unmetalled road. Woods on one side. Brick wall on the other. No houses peeking from the corner. Sidewalk broken in places, absent from places. Smattering of decrepit green benches here and there. Occasionally a car would bullet down at about the velocity of sound. That's what no speed limits do to drivers. That's why lone ankle biters like Timmy choose lanes like these. That's unfortunately also where the vultures dwell.

Not that Mr. Hewson had no social life. [He took great pride in the balance he had steuck between his personal and professional career.] But so do vultures. Still, they generally hunt alone.

The tears emerged and rinsed Timmy's face. His bandy-leggedness ceased, his face scrunched up, his freshly blossoming Adam's apple erected against his throat as he faced the fiery sun.

Understandable therefore that he did not notice the well-dressed man sitting on a bench nearby, watching him with aquiline eyes. [Seeing as Timmy was having A Moment.] At least not until the well-dressed man introduced himself as a certain Mr. Hewson. [Who could not care less about a child's Moment on his Day.]

Timmy was startled and a little embarrassed. And a little scared, of Mr. Hewson's hawkish, non-prudish eyes. But Mr. Hewson had a kind smile and a kindly face and thus kindness dominated his middle-aged features. Timmy wiped hurriedly the tears off his face, his bottom throbbing weakly, his skin burning meekly from evil rays catching the tearlines.

Mr. Hewson, in the learned voice of a gentleman, asked the youth whether he was feeling all right. The youth in his junior belligerence told him that he was. Mr. Hewson insisted that he have a sit down even so. Mr. Hewson seemed genuinely concerned. And he was, so he was, in that his object of concern should have faith in his concern.

Timmy's delicate little buttock contacted the derelict bench. The bruise pained. He winced. Mr. Hewson winced along. Sat besides the boy. Put a hand on his shoulder. Flashed his kindly smile. Averted his aquiline eyes. Fixed them on Timmy's thighs.

The sun beat down on their heads. But the woods, they were cool.

I don't kid when I say I despise pedophilia.

Nevertheless, have a nice day! ✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧