DEMOLITION
Noplace in D-town to escape the sound of The Dance, and I’m glad. The techno beat is something to latch onto as punch number I’ve-lost-count crashes into my stomach like it will tear through and shatter my spine. Air leaves my lungs in a shocked oomph—always a surprise, no matter how many blows have landed—and my body curls, absorbing the violence.
Awareness narrows to brilliant agony and the boom of the bass. If only my meditations were half this focused. A timeless moment later, I can breathe again, but not for long, because the next hit comes, with its oomph exhale followed by aching stillness.
The beat carries me, red flashes of pain pulsing in time, and I lose track of everything else until the blows stop. I am lying on the ground, my right eye swollen shut. I open my left a little and meet the glazed eye of the A whose been beating me. I cower back before realizing he’s on his side too. Blood drools out of his mouth onto the broken concrete between us.
Tattooed fingers grab the A’s shirt, flipping him onto his back, and a denim-clad knee thunks to the ground by my lips. The new boy’s fist smashes into the A’s round face, splitting the skin over the cheekbone.
The knuckles land again, widening the gash.
Again.
Again—the nose this time, connecting with a crunch. The A’s head jerks to the side and a warm spray of blood mists my face. Bile rises in my throat, and I close my eyes, turning my face away.
“You going to live?”
I’ve been counting my breaths and it takes me a second to realize the sounds of impact have stopped and the question is for me. I nod, then crack open my good eye. The new boy is crouched in front of me, one hand extended, and his knuckles dominate my field of vision. Black letters are tattooed across the backs of his fingers.
R-E-A-L
D-E-A-L
A black anarchy symbol is inked at the base of his thumb, the A’s blood smeared over it. The same symbol marks the A’s shirt—spattered with my blood—and even though they’re not the same tribe, the similarity is too much, and I cringe away. The movement shoots through me, sharp and hot, like I’m on fire everywhere, and air hisses between my teeth.
The Real Deal-er stands up, and his fingers curl and uncurl in front of him, like they have somewhere to be. He shifts his feet and then drags his palms down the dirty thighs of his jeans. I force myself to look up. Not so far as his eyes, but to a clean-shaven chin and clenched jaw. The ends of messy brown hair curl around cheeks lightly dusted with freckles. He’s looking down at me, I feel it, and my tongue sneaks out across my split lip in a nervous gesture.
Without warning, he bends down, and again I flinch back. All the time the A was beating me, I managed to stay silent, but now a whimper escapes. A tiny, broken sound like from a terrified animal. The Real Dealer freezes, then straightens up one vertebrae at a time. Brawny muscles shift under his t-shirt—the body of a guy, not an in-between like me—and before I can stop myself I’ve looked up, all the way to his eyes.
Light filters through the smog behind him, casting his face in shadow, and I can’t tell if I’ve hurt his feelings, or if he’s just disgusted with me, and I can’t decide how to feel about him, either.
He’s an atheist. An anarchist. A militant. And he probably just saved my life.
I lie there, curled in on myself, waiting for…something. To get used to the agony. For him to leave. For one of my tribe to find me.
“Idiot Bee,” he finally says. “Defend yourself, next time.”
I won’t, though. He has to know that as he dusts his hands on his jeans one more time and walks away, leaving me sprawled in the grit next to my unconscious attacker.
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Demolition, a YA dystopian novel by Láyla Messner
Think Lord of the Flies meets Starhawk’s The Fifth Sacred Thing, but with more romance.
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Are you a literary agent? Demolition is in the editing stages. The final word count will be between 50-90K. Please e-mail — layla(at)laylamessner(dot)com — if you’d like to see the project when it is complete. A two-sentence pitch is available now.
