Nowhere: Short Fiction

Nowhere

by Brian James Spies

His foreskin was raw and chafed, there was still cum dripping from between his knuckles as he wept the blood from under his right eye. As the cum mixed with his tears, it stung. He had gotten a real beating; I mean a real beating. But he had held his own and now he would be one of them, one of the gang. No more wedgies in the stairwell or swirlies in the bathroom stalls, no hoping and praying that they finally leave him alone, no longer would his nickname be Tits; now they’d call him by his real name, now he would have their respect. He fastened his belt slowly, as if this all was no big deal, trying to be cool. As he turned around one them put his arm on his shoulder, he didn’t flinch this time. He would never have to flinch again, he thought to himself. His mind drifted back to all the times he cried alone in his room, all the times his mother would knock on his door and ask him if everything was okay. “Of course everything isn’t okay!” He would scream out through the tears. How could anything be okay, he was a loser. “But not anymore,” he thought to himself, almost smugly. “I’m not a loser anymore.” Maybe he was too confident, maybe if he had some humility he would have seen it coming, the sucker punch headed right for his gut. It split him in half; it would have been funny if it hadn’t been him being laid out like a cartoon character. “Nice ‘job Baldy, talk to us when you grow some pubes ya fag.” The other guys laughed and then turned to walk away. He lay on the infield grass, hardly breathing; the wind knocked out of him right along with his masculinity and what little self-esteem he possessed in the first place. He couldn’t even cry, he was broken; like an old toy, they had had their fun with him and now they were done with him. From that point on he wasn’t even there.