*This was an exercise from a writing class in college on transitions... we were supposed to break down a scene in as great a detail as possible! I don't think it is not completely finished but I like it so far. It is based on a true story told to me by a college friend recounting a childhood memory.*
Jimmy’s eyes were like small wombs harboring angels. Often the only thing his father saw was the ocean that almost continuously bled from them. Tears seemed to line up to ask permission before they left each corner. He wore yellow hair like a crown when he laughed. His skin was smooth and rounded, as if he could be gently folded together and packed away when he needed to disappear. He often dreamt of doing just that. When his skin was bruised from the beating, it almost appeared as if he simply had little moons stamped all over him in a rainbow of colors.
Hunter’s eyes were like jailhouses for demons; they were red most of the time from alcohol. His nose stuck out like a wild animal’s craving a kill. His lips were so thin it hurt to watch him yell. His skin was dry and flaky when he first returned to the base from an assignment. By the first few drinks his skin became like liquid lava; he stuck to anything he touched. What hair he had left stood high and proud upon his scalp as if maintaining attention at all times. It was jet black, and tended to match his devilish eyes. He would make himself so hot from yelling that sweat literally poured across his body and expanded his fingers. He knew he could hit harder when he drank and perhaps this is why he drank so much. His father abused him as well, but he was determined to learn from it. He used to tell his best friends how excited he was to be “the perfect father.” Hunter began losing control when Jimmy turned six and began to form his own opinions about the world. He never wanted to hit his children, but he didn’t know any better when frustration overcame him.
Hunter often lost control, of his arms and his legs as he pounded and kicked anyone who tried to stand in his way. He numbed himself with booze until all he felt was neglected anger. Jimmy tried to reject his father’s anger and though usually successful, he was also overwhelmed with pain and splattered with bruises. By the time Jimmy was 15 years old he was only five feet tall and fragile like a feather.
*
Jimmy got home around 4:00 in the afternoon from school the day report cards were handed out. It was a day he always dreaded, though he especially dreaded it tonight due to the C that was stamped on the section marked “ALGEBRA.” As his father started to yell, Jimmy’s eyes grew narrow and dark like funnel clouds. As he listened to his father, he grew pink and hot and began to drip onto the tiles, like his father. As Hunter picked Jimmy’s frail body up and held him over the trashcan, he began to feel weak and tired even of yelling. Hunter’s skin ached for color and began to lay down as his grip loosened upon Jimmy’s neck.
They both fell to the ground. Hunter clung to his throbbing chest with shocked hands. As he lay unconscious on the kitchen floor, Jimmy simply stood tall and obediently over him. His body seemed longer now, and though he knew he should be calling for help all he could do was sweat off the part of the trash that had stuck to him from the fall. He did not cry; he only stood still. His lips curled so thin they seemed to want to break even in silence. Hunter lay breathless, helpless and scared, unable to move a single limb in his body. All Jimmy could do was sit and watch him suffer, smelling the alcohol that saturated his own skin now.
When Hunter awoke he was living inside of Jimmy’s mind. Life has a way of teaching the soul to find solace.
