I'm alive.
That's the first thought in my mind while I stare at Twitchy's confused face.
Quite the change from manic to dumbfounded.
It would be a lie to say I'm not confused about what's happening like Twitchy is, fortunately though.
I kind of just thought I died? Oddly enough it bring a sense of calm.
Maybe a better word would be despair?
That could be to be honest? It could explain the feelings rising in me. The ones that make me want to puke and make me itchy at the same time? No, not itchy. Restless.
Maybe it's just because of this close death Situation? Or maybe it's because I'm me. I don't know, nor do I care.
What's sure is that being calm is quite the advantage.
And I need to use it. Fast. Because this dirty feeling is rising in my throat, making me want to lash out.
So ludger. You're relatively calm! What can you see?
Great question!
For a first I can see that he's confused as anybody would be in that situation, I can practically hear his thoughts on his face. 'did the gun break? Why did I hear the gunshot? Did I shoot him? Why is his brain whole?'
Lots of questions!
And again as a calm person.
I'm calm, always have been, and I'll keep being calm.
So I'll repeat.
As a calm person, a CALM person, I realize that I need to take matters into my own hands....quite literally.
Without even realizing it, I stomp the ball of my feet against the ground.
Generating as much power as possible while the three-and-a-half boxing lessons I took when I was a kid do their best to shape this energy into lethal intent.
I'm not aware of the way my hips rotate.
I'm not aware of how they transfer power toward my shoulder which itself rotate taking example from it's fellow limbs, what I'm aware of is that my punch landed.
Probably not a great one.
But one toward a shorter and lighter opponent.
One that is just enough to make Twitchy stumble backward in a rough daze, no chin to take that punch.
Still following his dancing principles, Twitchy cross his feet together. Trying to stay up.
He fail to do so.
Falling gracefully instead.
He was for sure imitating the drunk dog I saw on Instagram yesterday.
Not taking any chances I rush toward his fallen form with all the strength I ever had.
My eyes focus on twitchy left hand. on my right.
And that's without an hint of hesitation. As the ball of rage claw up behind my throat, that I jump.
Just as gracefully as twitchy did.
My hands lash out like a serpent forward, right around twitchy hand. The one holding the gun.
I can barely see or feel my body falling above his struggling body, right as I pin his gunhand against the ground. The only reason why I notice my burning knees, scraped against the ground during the fall is because of weight.
I need weight.
Shifting awkwardly on my knees above Twitchy's body, knees bleeding through my pants. I manage to find a position that gives me good leverage against his wrist.
Just enough for him to be unable to move it.
To point it at me EVER again.
It won't move, it must not move, I won't allow it to move, I can't let it move, I just can't.
The coiling in my throat manage to bat out the shaking sob I was going to let out.
As it does Twitchy, recovering like the rabid animal he always was, punch madly at my face.
it's weak, barely worth mentioning.
My chin still dig down against my chest, the punches are even weaker now.
Feeling his strength, I risk it.
Keeping my dominant hand on his wrist. Right hand. I free my left one, raising it into the air and slam my knuckles against his face like he does to me, he felt that, he felt that a lot.
The hand beneath my right one is squirming like a tortured animal, the result of Twitchy shoulder moving in uncomfortable ranges in the hope of freeing his victory condition out.
My superior position and the punches repeatedly caving his nose in make it impossible.
I make it impossible.
Pressing my advantage, I keep striking again and again with my hand, numbing by the second.
I hope, I sincerely hope I do not only break cartilage.
In the hope of making my thoughts a reality, my arms move in a frenetic rage, fueled with the kind of energy that promise days of exhaustion, fueled by the those dirty coils of rage that make me want to puke.
The same feeling that fueled my courage to joke mid mugging.
Right...jokes, jokes, joke around ludger.
The atmosphere make it hard to find jokes.
Grim noises resonate in the street, around us, blood splatters the floor as my hand goes up and down like a well-oiled machine.
The groans of pain Twitchy make the whole scene more macabre, he doesn't sound like a rabid animal anymore, he sounds like a dying one, a pathetic dying one.
The kind of animal any human would pass in front and try to save, try to help, he sound like a kitten, a puppy, an abused one.
One that will never recover from the abuse his owner put him through, one that will put droves of people to the tears the second his story is spread online.
And I'm turning him into a pizza.
The slow repetitive impacts against my jaw slow to a crawl as Twitchy, abused like he never was before, wisely decides to repurpose his punching arm into a blocking arm.
In a sad excuse of a guard.
A flimsy attempt in the hope of reducing the impact of the hits coming from above, his forearm in this new guard looks more cradling than guarding as if he was trying to hug himself, like he always does.
The feeling rise. In my chest. In my throat. Making me want to lash out HARDER AND HARDER
Like he always does right. Like he always FUCKING did to protect himself from the ones that think he's a bitch, to protect himself from his oh so great friends.
He's starting to look like a pizza as the blood pool out. Weak joke. Bad situation. But it's just enough to calm this dirty rage in me.
I punch again, against his forearm, and the difference in weight makes his forearm slam against his face.
Now that's funny isn't it?
Joke, don't look at the dying guy under you and just do it lud, just do it. Don't fucking stop.
A weak moan of pain comes out of his mouth just after, the sound resembling the ones of a puppy, the kind of puppy in such a state only the worst of bastard would dare not help.
Am I one of the worst bastards? Maybe.
My bloody hand rests in the air, tilted up, ready to obey my will.
Maybe not.
His clean hand digs into his hair, afraid of letting his guard, his cradling, break.
My right hand burns, my nails now digging into his increasingly more desperate left hand.
My hold is slipping.
A moment later, my bloody hand is still immobile, unwavering in the air as his moans resonate in the street, sounds like a kitten moan now.
The kind of kitten only the filthiest of filth would dare to lift a hand on against.
You wouldn't harm a kitten would you?
The hold weaken. I hesitate. But the rage clawing in me ignore the negative self talk.
I don't stop. I can't stop, I shouldn't, that's a bad idea. Don't stop.
My hand finally sees an opening and descends with fury against a small uncovered part of his face, I feel something shift under his face, a teeth, a bone.
Lifting it again, I punch his solar plexus, the pain making him lower his forearm to protect the newly threatened area, seeing this opportunity, I crush his face with my fist, again.
I feel something else shift, in my hand this time, a bone, I'm sure of it.
It doesn't hurt. However, I do feel my muscles burn, the lactic acid building inside of my shoulders and triceps as I pin his hand harder and harder.
He struggles, the back of his hand dragging against the ground blood painting the ground just below it.
My hand pressing hard enough for his skin to break the second he moves his hand, my hold weakens.
Just like my resolve.
Just like my left hand decided to stop.
A gunshot.
My hand shakes in effort, keeping his still, it must stay still. Another, and another, targeting whatever side of the street the barrel is pointed at. Another shot.
My ears are buzzing. My fist is still up, wondering if it shoud slam down again, should shut him up.
Another one, his shoulders bend in such an unnatural way, lifting from the ground and slamming again as his elbow hyperextends in a pitful attempt to gather power, his limb cracking and popping as he shoots.
He look so pathetic, so close to death.
Another one. Somehow he generates enough force to move his hand away from my tired one.
My right hand, desperately drags against his forearm hoping to stop and restrain him again, but that's not enough to stop him from aiming.
The barrel turns to the will of his owner aiming around the place where I tower above him, he shoot.