Blood filled my mouth as the fist connected with my face. I staggered back, hit the bar, then found my footing. Spitting blood on the black painted floor, I wiped away the few drops still clinging to my lips.
Advancing, not giving him time to think, I struck.
Bones groaned and skin split as my knuckles slammed into his face. One, two, three times my fist flew, before he fell to the floor, cradling his nose.
”Stay the fuck down.”
Hands, firm yet gentle, grabbed my arm. I turned, looking into beautiful blue eyes, pleading with me to just go. I touched my love’s face, feeling the faint stubble under my hands, ran my thumb over those soft lips. I kissed them, not caring that I tasted of beer and blood.
With a protective arm over his shoulders, I was ready to leave.
”I'm not gonna let some faggot beat me.”
I could ignore the hatred in the words, but not the gunshot.
The sound filled my head, burning it’s way through everything, ringing in my ears as I eased my love to the floor. I looked into those blue eyes, saw the shock, pain, and fear, as blood spread on his chest, .
Anger burned in my body.
I turned, saw the gun, shaking, falling to the floor.
The bottle was heavy in my hand as I struck the man, breaking bones, splitting skin. Hitting the face again and again, till only a lump of red, white and grey was left.
I crawled to my love, cradling the still body, bloody fingerprints marking where my fingers touched.
A hate crime they called it.
They knew nothing of hate.
The bullets fly by, and the screams of the dying fill the air. They promised that this would bring peace, that this would end it all. Maybe the end will come, but he doubts it will do any good. Something moves and he brings the gun around. There, the enemy. His finger is on the trigger, sweat mixed with sand glides down his back. His focus narrows. Just him, just his target. He squeezes the trigger; his heart beats once, the enemy turns. He freezes. Fear crawls up his spine. Big blue eyes, scared, young.
Just a child, just a child.
His finger is resting there, a hair's breadth between life and death. Between killer and savior. But orders are orders; the choice was never his to make. The trigger glides, the gun jerks. The child falls. No time to think, no time to dwell. A life is a life, just push on. They are almost done, almost there.
The bullet hit his throat, filling his lungs with blood, stealing his breath and his voice. He crumbles, his strings cut. Faces above him, telling him he will be alright. They shouldn’t lie, though he forgives them. Will God show him the same mercy? Will he ever be forgiven for the sins he has done? Tears streak his face, washing away the mud and dirt. He thinks about his mother, his father, the sweet lips of the girls at home. The devil might be waiting for his soul, but he has already been to hell.