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31_days2008-06-07 11:39 pm
lifesnotasong.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2008-06-07 11:39 pm
[June 7] [Original] Small Miracles
Title: Small Miracles
Day/Theme: June 7, "roses can sprout in the concrete streets"
Series: Original
Character(s)/Pairing: Micah
Rating: R (language, allusions to violence and rape)
“Has anyone seen my wallet?”
Micah was well aware that she looked about fifteen, what with her loose-fitting jeans and baggy t-shirt, her boyish boots and ill-kempt hair. The dirt under her nails was permanent, to her mother’s chagrin, but after twenty years of tomboyish antics, there wasn’t much Micah could do about it even if she wanted to. With her bulky clothes and careless appearance, her slight frame and androgynous features, she was used to being confused at first glance for a boy, and didn’t think twice when her legal status was questioned.
“Shit, man, has anyone seen my goddamned wallet?”
Micah was well aware that this was not the best part of town to be walking through alone, what with the burned-out prostitutes and desperate addicts, the territorial gangs and cold-hearted thieves. The dangers in the shadows were here always, Micah was well aware, and the police had given up on this section of town, realizing that there was nothing they could do to quell the crime. With their switchblades and knives, their guns and knuckles, those who ruled this part of town were used to being respected without question, and took great delight when an outsider stumbled into their lair.
“Who the fuck stole my wallet?”
There was no one near the bench at the bus stop besides Micah and the yelling man. She was trying to remain invisible without appearing afraid, trying to appear as neither a threatening opponent nor a likely victim. She had been sitting at the bench for fifteen minutes already; her benchmate had only appeared a few moments ago, angry the moment he was close enough to be sure of getting her attention.
“You steal my wallet, faggot?”
Micah glanced up at him for a moment, incredulous disbelief flashing across her face. She said nothing.
“Fag, answer up—you steal my wallet?”
She shook her head, not looking at him, praying for the bus to come, although she didn’t have much faith on the conductors keeping a timely schedule for this part of town; it was already late by ten minutes. Darting a quick glance down the street, she was surprised to see it, slowly lumbering its way towards her stop. Thank god for small miracles.
Micah hurried onto the bus when it opened its doors, giving her ticket to the driver and slouching into an empty seat near the back. The bus was close to full, with a variety of strangers filling the seats, rough-looking loud teenagers and empty-eyed young mothers, angry-sounding muttering men and high-pitched giggling whores. Wallet or no wallet, the man who had been harassing her at the bus stop was on the bus now, making his way back towards her seat, single-mindedly pursuing her.
“You trying to hide from me, faggot? Just like one to hide like a pussy instead of fighting like a man.”
“I’m not a goddamned faggot, jackass.”
She spoke slowly and deliberately, staring at the seatback in front of her, anger crouching at the back of her throat, ready to pounce.
“Like hell you aren’t, squeaky-ass bastard. Like hell you aren’t.”
Usually Micah appreciated being confused for a boy when she was out on her own. It was often entertaining to pass without trying, to get called sir instead of ma’am, to get joked around with by the posers at the mall instead of whistled at like her sister always was. But when punks like this one started seeing her as a threat, as a challenger to their alpha-male status in their lame excuse for a territory, she had to wonder whether wearing a bit of make-up now and then might not be a bad idea.
Then again, the worst this creep would think to do to her would be to beat the shit out of her, so long as he assumed she was a boy; there was always the possibility of worse, otherwise.
Weighing her options, Micah decided that she had no good solutions. She could keep trying to ignore him, which wasn’t going to work, apparently. She could fight back verbally, which was only going to escalate. She could skip the verbal fight and just start the inevitable physical one, but no matter who started it, she knew who would win, and it wasn’t her.
“Back off, Zig,” said an unfamiliar voice to her left. Across the aisle from her sat a man, slightly older than she was, much older than she looked. He was on his feet, looking calm as can be, staring heatedly into the eyes of her aggressor.
“Well, well. What have we here? Decide to be prince charming of fags today, K?”
“I said, back the fuck off.”
The two men stared at each other for a long minute. Micah squirmed in her seat, trying not to look either of them in the eye or break the heavy silence. Finally, the man from the bus stop let out an exhale of disgust.
“The fuck ever, man. You can have all the fags you fucking want.” He turned to face Micah once more and leered at her, a cruel smile curling his upper lip back above his teeth. “I ever see you again, I’ll kill you, faggot.”
“Bring it,” she spat.
He looked like he was going to lunge at her for a moment, but the man across the aisle was glaring at him. After the anger had flashed across his face long enough to remind Micah that she really had no idea what she was getting herself into, the sneer returned. He took one step forward, spat at her, and then made his way back to the front of bus. Disgusted, Micah looked at the spot on her shirt where his saliva now clung.
“Here,” the man across the aisle said, casually handing her a bandana from his pocket. She gave him a terse smile and accepted it, cleaning herself up as best she could, her blood boiling.
“Word of advice? Don’t pick fights with blokes bigger than you. Scrawny-ass kids should leave well enough alone around these parts.”
She ignored him.
“Anyway, a thing like you shouldn’t be all alone ‘round here. What’s your name?”
“My name ain’t shit.”
“Fair enough, but that still leaves us with a shitload of other options.”
“Go to hell,” she said, tossing his now-sullied bandana back to him and turning to look out the window.
“Already planning on it, kid. Already planning on it.”
Day/Theme: June 7, "roses can sprout in the concrete streets"
Series: Original
Character(s)/Pairing: Micah
Rating: R (language, allusions to violence and rape)
“Has anyone seen my wallet?”
Micah was well aware that she looked about fifteen, what with her loose-fitting jeans and baggy t-shirt, her boyish boots and ill-kempt hair. The dirt under her nails was permanent, to her mother’s chagrin, but after twenty years of tomboyish antics, there wasn’t much Micah could do about it even if she wanted to. With her bulky clothes and careless appearance, her slight frame and androgynous features, she was used to being confused at first glance for a boy, and didn’t think twice when her legal status was questioned.
“Shit, man, has anyone seen my goddamned wallet?”
Micah was well aware that this was not the best part of town to be walking through alone, what with the burned-out prostitutes and desperate addicts, the territorial gangs and cold-hearted thieves. The dangers in the shadows were here always, Micah was well aware, and the police had given up on this section of town, realizing that there was nothing they could do to quell the crime. With their switchblades and knives, their guns and knuckles, those who ruled this part of town were used to being respected without question, and took great delight when an outsider stumbled into their lair.
“Who the fuck stole my wallet?”
There was no one near the bench at the bus stop besides Micah and the yelling man. She was trying to remain invisible without appearing afraid, trying to appear as neither a threatening opponent nor a likely victim. She had been sitting at the bench for fifteen minutes already; her benchmate had only appeared a few moments ago, angry the moment he was close enough to be sure of getting her attention.
“You steal my wallet, faggot?”
Micah glanced up at him for a moment, incredulous disbelief flashing across her face. She said nothing.
“Fag, answer up—you steal my wallet?”
She shook her head, not looking at him, praying for the bus to come, although she didn’t have much faith on the conductors keeping a timely schedule for this part of town; it was already late by ten minutes. Darting a quick glance down the street, she was surprised to see it, slowly lumbering its way towards her stop. Thank god for small miracles.
Micah hurried onto the bus when it opened its doors, giving her ticket to the driver and slouching into an empty seat near the back. The bus was close to full, with a variety of strangers filling the seats, rough-looking loud teenagers and empty-eyed young mothers, angry-sounding muttering men and high-pitched giggling whores. Wallet or no wallet, the man who had been harassing her at the bus stop was on the bus now, making his way back towards her seat, single-mindedly pursuing her.
“You trying to hide from me, faggot? Just like one to hide like a pussy instead of fighting like a man.”
“I’m not a goddamned faggot, jackass.”
She spoke slowly and deliberately, staring at the seatback in front of her, anger crouching at the back of her throat, ready to pounce.
“Like hell you aren’t, squeaky-ass bastard. Like hell you aren’t.”
Usually Micah appreciated being confused for a boy when she was out on her own. It was often entertaining to pass without trying, to get called sir instead of ma’am, to get joked around with by the posers at the mall instead of whistled at like her sister always was. But when punks like this one started seeing her as a threat, as a challenger to their alpha-male status in their lame excuse for a territory, she had to wonder whether wearing a bit of make-up now and then might not be a bad idea.
Then again, the worst this creep would think to do to her would be to beat the shit out of her, so long as he assumed she was a boy; there was always the possibility of worse, otherwise.
Weighing her options, Micah decided that she had no good solutions. She could keep trying to ignore him, which wasn’t going to work, apparently. She could fight back verbally, which was only going to escalate. She could skip the verbal fight and just start the inevitable physical one, but no matter who started it, she knew who would win, and it wasn’t her.
“Back off, Zig,” said an unfamiliar voice to her left. Across the aisle from her sat a man, slightly older than she was, much older than she looked. He was on his feet, looking calm as can be, staring heatedly into the eyes of her aggressor.
“Well, well. What have we here? Decide to be prince charming of fags today, K?”
“I said, back the fuck off.”
The two men stared at each other for a long minute. Micah squirmed in her seat, trying not to look either of them in the eye or break the heavy silence. Finally, the man from the bus stop let out an exhale of disgust.
“The fuck ever, man. You can have all the fags you fucking want.” He turned to face Micah once more and leered at her, a cruel smile curling his upper lip back above his teeth. “I ever see you again, I’ll kill you, faggot.”
“Bring it,” she spat.
He looked like he was going to lunge at her for a moment, but the man across the aisle was glaring at him. After the anger had flashed across his face long enough to remind Micah that she really had no idea what she was getting herself into, the sneer returned. He took one step forward, spat at her, and then made his way back to the front of bus. Disgusted, Micah looked at the spot on her shirt where his saliva now clung.
“Here,” the man across the aisle said, casually handing her a bandana from his pocket. She gave him a terse smile and accepted it, cleaning herself up as best she could, her blood boiling.
“Word of advice? Don’t pick fights with blokes bigger than you. Scrawny-ass kids should leave well enough alone around these parts.”
She ignored him.
“Anyway, a thing like you shouldn’t be all alone ‘round here. What’s your name?”
“My name ain’t shit.”
“Fair enough, but that still leaves us with a shitload of other options.”
“Go to hell,” she said, tossing his now-sullied bandana back to him and turning to look out the window.
“Already planning on it, kid. Already planning on it.”