Clenched Fist

When I was in fourth grade, I was a small, weak kid. I was the sort who
looked like I was begging to be tied to a post and fed to ants. One
look at me, and you’d know here’s a kid you could kick without fear of
reprisal.

There was indeed somebody who was bigger than me who
loved kicking my balls. I hated it, but because I was a newbie in that
school and was not very confident about anything yet, all I did was
grin or avoid large crowds as much as possible. But this particular boy
so persistently hounded me until I came to the end of my tether; he was
bigger, taller, and generally looked like he came from Hell. He’d make
faces, interrupt my conversations about the amazing powers of Voltron
and the Transformers, and eat my food. Worse, he had the entire class
behind him; he was the kind of boy whom the teachers loved because he
sucked up to them, and usually, when he’d fuck up, he’d cleverly pass
the blame to somebody else—and that somebody else, at that time, was
often me.

So there was a point I decided that, although I’d
usually avoid physical trouble, maybe I should make an exception. Maybe
I should give this boy a taste of his own blood.

One day,
somebody sold me a metal ring for fifty centavos. The ring’s supposed
diamond was just cheap glass, and when you’d remove the glass, what’s
left were the little metal claws that used to hold the stone. It became
a terrible little weapon. I would wear the ring in my quiet moments and
promise myself the next time the fucker busts my balls, he’ll be
sleeping with the fishes.

So one afternoon, I was on my way to
school when I spotted him at the far end of the road. I felt the rush
of blood to my head. I took out the ring from my backpocket and slipped
it into my middle finger. I steeled my nerves and surrendered to the
fact that it was probably my last day on earth. It all felt like
suicide, like I was running headlong to something that would shatter me
so utterly. But I thought, if this fucker makes the mistake of doing
something that even remotely resembles oppression, God help me, but I
would rip that face apart.

Then I clenched my fist, shoved it deep in my pocket, and walked on.

But
for some reason, the boy disappeared; he probably made a turn that I
didn’t see because I was so rapt in my thoughts of “righting what was
wrong.”

I failed to see him at school that day. More strange was that, afterwards, he and I would be good friends. Well, not really good
good friends, but something along the lines of
I-Leave-You-With-Your-Shit-Alone-While-I-Bother-Other-People kind of
friendship. I don’t exactly remember how, but I think it started the
day he asked me to draw something naughty and I obliged.

Years later, that fellow would die in a freak motorcycle accident.

I
would also forget about the ring for some years until one day, when I
was about to enter college, I found it again at the bottom of a box
that contained the knick-knacks of my childhood. Half-buried in lint,
the ring glimmered faintly as old memories sometimes did. I picked it
up, held it against the sun. The ring was still sharp; its little claws
looked like the talons of a small bird. But it was still sharp. The
cutting edge could still make you bleed.

Uncategorized |