It’s been quite some time since I’ve written anything for the 500 Club so I thought I’d revisit that and put something down. One of the prompts this week was fabulous and took on a life of its own.
The only thing Abner knew for sure was he was never going back home again. He was thirteen years old, for Christsake. When was his stupid mother going to realize he was big enough and smart enough to do some shit for himself? When would she look in the mirror and realize where her efforts should be going.
“You know why the kids laugh at me? Because of you,” the snippet ran like a movie scene behind his eyes, replaying the incident from minutes before in their kitchen.
“Honey,” his mother had started in her coochie-coo voice, stepping towards him.
Abner slammed the rickety front gate so hard on the way out it finally popped its hinges and crashed to the ground. Good. I hope she’s fucking watching me and feels sorry.
He stomped down the street chewing his teeth.
“Hey Abner,” a memory interrupted his victory march. It was Martins, the dumb kid who was in his class because he had been held back a year for underperforming. Now he was hot shit because he was older and bigger than everyone else in his year. Asshole. “Hey Abner. How do you make your mother smile? Tell her the two morning-after pills are a tip. Hahahahaha.”
Abner started along a trail that cut the vacant, weed-ridden lot of land in half. He found an empty bottle and hurled it to the ground. Its smash was satisfying.
“Know what, Abner?” The memory invaded. “Your daddy must have been one sorry motherfucker.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” the other kids encouraged Watkins teasing; too many to remember each face.
“Look at you,” Watkins spat. “It’s a miracle his sperm ever made it. Wimpy-ass, goggle box cocksucker. You wanna suck my cock?”
Abner had wanted to run, but the circle of bodies closed in tighter.
“No,” he had said.
“No?” Watkins played the crowd. “That’s your mama’s job. Hahahahaha.”
Watkins grabbed him first, but others helped. They stripped him, spat on him, kicked him, stole his glasses, fondled his junk. He was hysterical. Screaming. Crying. Laughing.
“Honey,” his mother said in her coochie-coo voice. He was back in the kitchen with his mother that morning. “Ignore those silly children. You’re better than them. Yes, they were nasty, but you’ll get over it all. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”
“But, Mom, I don’t want…”
“Abner George Marshall.” Her bitch tone. “You will return to school and you will get over it.”
“Fuck you, you stupid whore. I hope you die and go to hell,” he shouted, leaving the kitchen.
“Yadayadayada,” were the last words he heard his mother say before he banged the front door closed.
Abner was late for class. He heard their voices through the closed door. He felt sick. The corridor was cold and empty. He reached into his pocket and felt the cool Beretta against the skin of his hand. He could count to nine. The only thing Abner knew for sure was he was never going back home again.