Short Story / The Fire Thief

You don’t wake up one morning and decide that your life would be much better if you found pleasure in the misery of others.

But Astor proved me wrong.

“Kiaran, come here for a sec!”
“What do you want from me?”
“It’s not like you have anything better to do.”

I knew exactly what was coming up. It didn’t matter how it all began because in the end I’d be on the ground bleeding again. As I slowly walked towards him I counted off the places I’ve bled from and the bones of mine he broke numerous times before. Bloody nose, broken arm, fractured wrist, black eye…

“Empty your backpack. Look at that pathetic piece of…” His voice faded into the background as I mechanically dumped the entire contents of my bag at his feet. I didn’t dare look up since my vision was once again blurred.

Hand reaching for my sketchbook again, he brutally flipped through the pages and started to rip them out one by one. Tormenting me even more, he kept a running commentary of his interpretation of my drawings.

“…and this looks like a snake that’s been inflated and ready to burst any moment. I wonder what that would be like. How about we fill you up with air and pop you?” Maniacal laughter exploded from inside of him and boomed over me.

“Say something dumbass!”
With my chin pressed against my chest I answered him with a meek whisper: “Hit me already.”

I could feel his menacing talon pointing at me. If this was a world of fantasy, flames would spurt out of his claw of a hand and burn me…physically and emotionally.

“Looks like Kiaran has some brains after all! You must be hungry huh? I’ll be generous and give you more than a knuckle sandwich today.”

Slowly, he circled around me. His actions reminded me of a hawk eyeing its unsuspecting prey waiting for the right moment to strike it and gouge its eyes out with its cruel beak…to claw at its body with its talons. After all his name, Astor, is derived from the Provençal “astur” meaning “hawk.”

I was expecting a smack in the head or a kick in the gut but instead the attack came from behind. The sudden impact of combat boot on my bent back sent me straight into the ground. Even before I hit it, I already knew I’d be losing more teeth today. And that wouldn’t be the only thing broken. It never was. Shards of my shattered glasses pierced my face. I laid there with my head turned sideways so I could count the amount of teeth in front of me. Only two. Closing my eyes I endured more of the taunting.

“Look at him! Why don’t you stand up and defend yourself? Defend yourself!”
Pulling myself off the ground, I kept my head down and spat blood before replying, “you win.”
“What’s that? Admitting defeat so soon? I should have known Peanut-boy!”
“You win, you win, you wi-”

Before I was able to continue my repetition, I was shoved back into the ground. Peanut-boy. I hated that. Afflicted with a lethal allergy to peanuts, Astor would mar my already bruised self-esteem by forcing me into the role of an outsider because of this. By this time, I was beyond any kind of care for my body. I didn’t care. I don’t think I ever did. Not even from the start.

He never bothered me. Like everyone else that surrounded me, Astor left me alone. Always left to myself, I would roam around the school grounds and hide in the branches of the trees that towered over the building. Looking down at the ant-sized people scurrying around gave me inspiration for my art. For my passion. The set routine of my days were comforting since many things in life were unstable. I put all my energy in my drawings and all my trust in my solitude. Plus I was never really alone. I was always with the trees; they spoke to me. Or maybe I was the one speaking. But either way, I had my own form of interaction.

And so did Astor.

Targeting the kids that were labelled as quirky weirdos who were hopelessly socially inept, Astor was every underclassman’s worst nightmare. Suave, well-liked and charismatic to teachers, he would readily offer a helping hand to anyone in need and volunteer to mentor and tutor pupils who were struggling. All the meaness (or rather more aptly termed wickedness) in him was masked by a smile that melted a million hearts. Subtly intimidating those he disliked, he befriended them at first then progressed to exploit and manipulate them. I admit, Astor shared one thing in common with me; he was an artist too. Instead of pencils and ink, his mediums of choice were threats and insults. Without the knowledge of teachers, surreptitiously he would inject a poison serum of putdowns which diminished one’s self-esteem to incalcutable low levels. I was given a full dose of it from the start.

As always, my art was used as an inaccurate judgment against me thus earning me the reputation of the typical loner. To escape all of life’s complications, I developed a style of minimalism in my drawings. As the imagery morphed into pure abstractness, my thoughts and feelings bled onto the paper in black and white only. Black and white that was clear and concise. Exactly like everyone I ever encountered, Astor had no appreciation for what I did. Treating me like his other victims, he capitalised his criticisms on my artwork. The fire of my passion was slowly drowned by the verbal abuse that flowed non-stop from his beak. Mostly on my part, I allowed him to extract joy from this cruelty. Now there was no way out of it.

Or so I thought.

Finally finished with destroying my ego, he admired the pathetic heap of my huddled figure on the ground and stepped over me. Like always, I laid there for a solid five minutes as I replayed the beating in my head. Slumped in a posture that would gain great disapproval from any passing adult, I dragged myself home. Going through the motions, I hid in the shower and expunged my feelings of guilt by forcing my fingers down my throat. Staring at the vomit that flooded my feet, I found sick inspiration for my next drawing. Maybe I could experiment with natural tones of brown and beige. I felt that today was going to be different anyway.

Sliding down the banister, I met Mum at the foot of the stairs.

“How was school Kiaran?”
“Great.”
“Really? What was so great about it?”
Once again I spat out a lie, “I received an A on my essay.”
“The one comparing the writing styles of Dostoevsky and Chekhov?”
“Yea, that one.”
“I knew you had a talent for writing. You got it from your father.”

With each lie I told about my school life, the guilt inside me swelled more. I was patiently waiting for the day where I would burst. Where I would pop like a snake filled with too much air. Like Astor predicted.

Skipping dinner by ignoring my hunger and lying that I grabbed a sandwich at Subway, I went up to my room to spend the rest of the afternoon contemplating how I could make a difference in my life. I knew that everyone had a passion in their life. Art was my passion and since the past few months, I was Astor’s passion. While I drew upon paper, Astor used my body as his canvas. He loved to drain me of the things I loved. At that moment, a brilliant idea dawned upon me and I hurriedly threw on my pair of jeans and a sweater.

“Mum, I’ll be going down to 7-Eleven to get some milk! I think we’re out.”
“Okay, be safe!”

Down the aisles, I strolled casually. I finally found what I was searching for and I slipped out of the store after paying for it. With my precious purchase hanging from the handle bar, I biked towards the old cemetary. Up in the trees, I stared over the numerous, inviting tombstones. The sky was the same blue as Astor’s eyes so I concentrated on the bleakness that lay below me. Earlier after today’s beating, I thought that I’d be trapped in the vicious cycle of Astor’s abuse but today was going to be different.

In my right hand I held the answer to all my problems; the escape to all this torment.

Gently I unscrewed the cap and scooped out a spoonful of it and shoved it into my mouth.

In a matter of minutes the smooth glass jar of peanut butter was empty.

I realised my last words to Mum were a lie.  

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