Of Crab Tins and Diamonds

Chapter 9: Of Scars and Phantom Pains

Tintin had never been the one to get squeamish or sick at the sight of blood. Bumps and bruises were what came with being an adventurous explorer and freelance reporter, hoping to catch a story to sell to the paper. He quickly found not everyone was happy with his curiosity and he'd gotten in his fair share of fistfights, each ending with a bleeding knuckles or a bruising jaw on both sides. In the end, after Haddock drug him out and away from the fight and as his wounds were cleaned, Tintin always felt a new rush of adrenaline, along with a feeling of victory after every fight he won. But now, clasping his hand in the end of his sweater, Tintin felt anything but victorious. His scarlet blood swelled and stained the edge of the shirt, turning the fabric a deep, dark purple.

Isn't it supposed to stop by now? Tintin thought, as he observed the wound. It wasn't a particularly large wound, the semicircle of teeth marks marking the palm and top of his hand. However, the punctures were deep and, with every minute that passed as the pair detoured through the labyrinth of corridors, Tom's worried frown growing deeper and deeper. As the pair made their way up the stairs and to the ships main deck again, Tintin paused to momentarily lean against the railing, suddenly growing light headed and dizzy.

Noting how his crewmate stopped so suddenly, Tom turned around and stood at Tintin's side.

"Hey, you alrigh', Red?"

Leaning over the side, Tintin had the sudden feeling he was going to be sick, that afternoon's lunch threatening to abandon ship.

"Hey, are you alrigh'?" Tom asked again, resting a hand on Tintin's shoulder. Tintin, swallowing thickly, shook his head slowly side to side, the young man continuing to stare blankly over the side. With the crashing waves, salt water slapped and leapt against the side of the Karaboujan, the flying droplets clinging to the freckles lining his cheeks. He wanted to cry out of frustration. First day, looking like as fragile and naive as a child. He didn't want to look weak in front of Tom, in front of his captain, in front of anyone, really.

Tintin, shaking his head again, tore his eyes away from the water before he looked back at Tom, blinking at the black spots dancing behind his eyes. Staring half lidded at Tom, Tintin didn't have time to make sense how his crewmate suddenly had an identical twin and where Snowy's barks were coming from before the cold, steel deck was so eager and rushing up to meet him.

He was picked on from day one; the other larger students always taking a chance to hit the back of his ginger head with anything they could get their hands on. A worn ball of paper, a dusty eraser, anything and everything that was in reach of the classroom and wasn't big enough to get noticed flying through the air by Mrs. May, their third grade teacher.

One day, the game had found its way to the playground, next to the see-saw Tintin was sitting on. He was happily reading his book, (he was never much for playing tag like the other kids), when suddenly a glob of dirt hit him squarely in between the shoulder blades. Tintin flinched. The blow particularly wasn't hard at all but, now his new, clean sweater was soiled and he began to wonder how to explain this to Nestor when he got home. Face flushing, tiny Tintin turned to face the trio of snickering boys, their faces dirty and scratched with roughhousing and careless play.

The tallest one, Bill, the trio's leader, smiled, "What's the matter? Scared your butler won't be able to get the stain out?"

They laughed and Tintin's eyes narrowed in annoyance, brushing the clinging dust off his shoulder, "He's not my butler! Uncle Nestor's the best uncle I could have."

"Sure," Mark, the stockiest one of the bunch, scoffed, "if you would consider that butler your family."

Shutting his book with a loud thud, Tintin attempted to walk away from the incident before it even happened.