Trauma drama

This was writtin for SoulPancake.   http://www.soulpancake.com/post/914/step-into-my-shoes.html


The question was:  Forget that Fiction 101 writing exercise crap about putting yourself into "another person's shoes"—today's all about ditching the third-person and focusing on Numero Uno. In other words, turn that exercise inside out and tell us about the one person who you wish could live a day in your shoes.


Think about those times when no one really understood how hard/confusing/frustrating/overwhelming it was to be you. Who do you wish could spend a day dealing with the hand you'd been dealt? What would they realize?
Write someone else into your shoes. (Poem it or prose it, just bang it out in 300 words or less.) Post their experience below.


So here goes...


"Pump the gas, retard."

You step out of the car. The bruise still ached.

"What did you say?"

"N-nothing!" You slam the door. Big mistake. As you slide the gas nozzle into the tank, you feel his hands around your throat. You don't even feel the first strike as your face is slammed into the gas pump. You do notice that gas prices aren't yet a dollar. Why do people pay so much more for premium?

The second impact makes you go limp. "Slam my fucking car door will you?" His grip releases, and you have your moment. His swing comes, but he barely clips you as you run into the store. "Please!"

Two people are waiting in line and the clerk is looking at you. Did they see anything? "Call the police. I need help!" No one moves. A hand grabs the back of your neck. "I need to talk to my son." He stands you outside the store and crosses his arms. "Who the fuck are you?"

"I-I.." You stutter. You feel warmth release into your pants. Great.

"You pissed yourself! Retard." The backhand comes and, not thinking, you raise your hands to block the hit. Hell is gathering behind the devil. You know that look.

"You do not raise your hand to me!" The punch drops you. It's funny. You don't really feel them anymore. You just step back and watch through a tunnel. Little windows. The boy getting pummeled doesn't even register. Instead, you think about how you are going to explain this tomorrow at school. You see that boy being pulled to his feet and you watch him sway. You didn't understand then that the term for his stepfather's condition was halitosis. When he got into his work, it got really bad.

Down you go again. Are you going to get back up? Better not. Then you remember the problem with lying down.

"Weak faggot." You feel the shoe connect. Not solidly, but enough to take the wind out of you.

You think to yourself, "Please god. Take me away from this. Blow up the gas station." Another kick lands. "Kill him. Burn him up." You feel the spit land on your face. How can one person smell that bad?

He walks away. A pickup full of rednecks pulls up. "You ok man?"

You look back at them with hate. You climb to your knees, and then to your feet. You walk back to your life inside the devil’s car.

No one is going to help you.