Angel
How do you Spell Wussy?

by
Tom Haynes

Copyright 2004,2006 - All rights reserved by the author.

It was a beautiful day, I was in the park, the mothers were out with their small children, the squirrels were mugging food off of little old men, and I was at peace with my fate. I had just seen the doctor and found out the tumor was cancer.

The weight hit me from behind, a boot to the back of the head. I fell as the pain blossomed out from my skull. I was too old, I couldn't get my arms in position to break the fall. I'm pretty sure my left wrist was broken. I couldn't feel the throbbing, but I did feel the fingers grabbing my hair. I could hear the mothers screaming in the background.

The fingers slammed my face on the gravel path, back and forth. The blood spewed from first my nose and then my lips. Teeth crunched, splintering on the solid grape nuts. "Why the hell do you have to make it hard on me?" It was a female voice and it sounded familiar.

She was straddling my back, pinning me to the ground. "You stupid man, why do you have to be such a wussy?"

Something bubbled up from deep inside my inner child and slapped her. I don't know how I managed to twist about, I saw a clump of my grey hair in her right fist, blood dripping from the piece of scalp still attached. But slap her I did - it rocked her back. She raised her other hand to her mouth, the lips were swollen, and some blood slithered a trail down to her chin. She wiped her fingers across, the blood didn't smear, it stuck to her hands. She grinned and started licking up the blood. She paused on the last drop, her tounge extended, as she scooped up the blood from her finger.

"You don't deserve me and I don't deserve to die. Take the damn treatment." She was the specialist I just been to see. But instead of the demure lab coat, glasses, and practical dress she had in the examinationb room, she wore leathers. It struck me, it was for defense, she was scared of me. That pleased me.