Inflammable [On Indefinite Hiatus]

Chapter 1: Not Enough

Chapter 1: Not Enough

***

Who's gonna fight for what's right?

Who's gonna help us survive?

Who's gonna fight for the weak?

Who's gonna make 'em believe?

A hero's not afraid to give his life

A hero's gonna save me just in time

- Skillet, "Hero"

***

He was, of course, outnumbered.

A circle of eleven-year-olds taller and fairer than he closed on him, their faces shining with malice and glee as they cheered their likewise tall and fair comrade on.

“Deck him good, Damian!”

“The little long-haired indio freak doesn’t stand a chance!”

“Deck him!”

Emilio was alone. They had slapped his books from his hands; his tiny tampipi which carried the rest of his school things was scattered on the dirt, mostly trampled. Yet he had a look of defiance and even with slight irritation in his eyes. Almost everyday, for two weeks, his mestizo schoolmates would target him for his small stature, his poor appearance, his defenselessness. Yet he had a thorniness in him which seemed to amuse yet confuse his aggressors, and they came on him like flies just to see how much more he could take before he cried home to his mother.

Damian, his persecutor for today, was ready, fists high to the sides of his head, a smirk on his face. 

Emilio just stood there, waiting. The last thing he wanted to do was run away.

“Hit him already!”

With a grunt, Damian caved in to the taunting of his peers and he charged.

Emilio, a slight eleven-year-old, took the blow like a man. For a moment he lifted both his arms in an attempt to thwart Damian’s punch but it hit his face anyway. Winded, but keeping his bearings, the little boy whipped huge steps a few paces back. Dust bellowed on his feet.

His left eye stung, and he knew with ever growing irritation that there would be a bruise a few hours later. It would be too obvious now. His mother was bound to find out once and for all.

“Damian, you weak little bitch, he’s still standing!” informed someone from the circle unnecessarily.

“Shut up!” cried the mestizo boy, gritting his teeth through his words. “That ain’t my strongest punch, you twat!”

The boys, at a young age, were apparently foul-mouthed and were eager about it.  They all spoke in broken Spanish when their teachers weren’t looking. The gritty colloquial was infamous in the streets of Manila; sometimes even the lower-ranking Guardia Civiles spoke it.

While Damian was half-distracted from the name-calling, Emilio made his move.

His punch landed cleanly on Damian’s nose. There was the sickening sound of flesh and bone crunching together.

“Fuck!” cried the beleaguered boy.

The boys made a collective sound of empathic pain as Damian cried out more in surprise than in pain and cupped his face.

Red started dripping unto his hands.

“Eh, you got injured fast.”

“Long-haired freak is learning!”