TROUVAILLE ... l.danes (REWRITE)

chapter twenty-seven; the past

BRUISED KNUCKLES

nineteen-eighty-five

HE SHOULDN'T have done that.

Fuck.

He really shouldn't have done that.

Lucas holds an ice pack to the bruises already starting to kiss his knuckles, his head hangs, hair falling in front of his face. Even it seems limper than usual. Knowing, straight away, that he should not have done that. Her face. God, her face when he pulled back, when he saw what he did.

She was scared of him.

The ice burns his skin. It feels better than looking down and seeing the smatterings of dark blue and heavy purple, a forever stain on his skin that will remind him of this day. He could have kept going. That's the scary thing. If her scream hadn't cut through the bright afternoon, he would have kept going. Punching, and punching, and punching until the skin between his knuckles was flayed.

Jeff pulls the ice pack away to get a look and then moves it back into place. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to. His disappointment is apparent in the simple way he slides away from Lucas and doesn't say anything. He doesn't even smoke. They just sit on the back steps of the Danes' house and let the silence push them further apart.

She'll never talk to him again.

The sun is starting to go down. Very slowly. Very gently. The sky is awash with soft shades of pink and red that swirl together. Like blood spilling on candy floss fingers. The clouds are merely wisps against the luscious backdrop and as the sun slowly dips behind the row of houses, they are left in warm shadow.

"Why did you do it?"

"You know why."

Jeff huffs and drops his head between his knees. The effects of the joint they shared has worn off and for a while, he'll feel a little bit sick. Made worse by the blood sticking to Lucas' knuckles. Buddy Pilsner's nose felt so good cracking beneath his bone. He shouldn't feel so proud. He knows that. Jeff knows that.

He shouldn't have done that.

Why did he do it? If anyone else asks, he'll simply say why not? Why shouldn't he punch Buddy Pilsner on a sunny Spring afternoon? Anyone else would have done it after hearing his obnoxious laughter ringing through the town square, like the tolling church bells his father sent him to destroy weeks ago when they all got sick of them going off over and over and over again. The noise had grated against his ears, tiny knives digging through until they reached his skull. He couldn't sit there on the steps of the gazebo any longer, couldn't enjoy the late Spring sun with his best friend. Not with that laughter echoing in his ears. A drumbeat. A call to war.

The day had started off well. He'd spent the morning helping his dad in the store, sitting behind the desk and taking payments. It had been easy money, really. Then, just after noon, Jeff had shown up, knocking on the door to the store and calling on him to "come out and play!" He'd laughed as he'd left behind his apron and followed Jeff outside into the sun. He hadn't realised how warm it was. How the sun had started to melt the skin of everyone else around them. Everyone had ice cream in one hand and condensation-covered soda in the other. They'd hopped into Doose's for chips and soda, and then crossed across the grassy town square until they'd made it to the gazebo. There were so many families having picnics. The Danes' used to have so many picnics and now he has no idea where the wicker basket has gone. Sat collecting dust in the attic most likely.