Twittling Thumbs

We stared at the two round - headed boys, Pat and Pete, run down and push the scrawny kid over from third hour. Me and my friend, Dylan, watched it all go down from there; as the scrawny kid tried to get back up, but was subsequently pushed back down again. Soon the kicking began. The scrawny kid turned over on his side and covered his face with his arms, shielding himself from the blows. I looked at his quivering physique and saw how his shins were being bled under the sun. In broad day light, it was an appalling view. But soon I blinked, then me and Dylan were off, concerning ourselves nothing of the incident. It was around the twenty - second of August ( a month after the incident ) that me and Dylan found out the kid had died. He was asthmatic and had an attack during...his attack. His name was Keaton, and although I had two classes with him, I would only remember his name from the obituary. Pete and Pat were thrown in juvie, expecting to carry out a harsher sentence once they were old enough. And yet, it felt like I was the one with the sentence carried to life. Life that should've been the rest of Keaton's. I still walked around and breathed the air he couldn't and it was starting to become a regular thing that I noticed. I was guilty and never tried. Dylan pulled the excuses that always seemed to spin. It was us and the fence, really. It was a really hot day. I didn't think he would die!? What about my shins? I've had breathing issues too! But of all the answers he would give, mine was the most dreaded between us. No answer. What was worse than having an answer to passivity? No answer. And that rung my neck red. Because what that implied was, I would let anybody lose oxygen over no reason. And that had to be the most evil of all reasons. It spoke an echo down a mine shaft, that trembled the stones. I was perpetuating an indifference towards empathy. Because maybe I worried about my shins, too. I pulled my hair for weeks thinking about Keaton. His skeletal like face staring at me in the shadows of my room. Nose bleeding, gasping for breath and trembling. My mother would walk in on me screaming and grunting, then wake me up in a pale sweat. Creeping the imagery of that day, frame for frame. I could barely look at myself in the mirror, but when I did, I couldn't believe I was only in my teens. My features were beginning to look old. My mother noticed these changes as well and took me to the doctor. Nothing to figure out, of course. I knew what was wrong, but had no answers. Whatever was the right one, passed by that day when me and Dylan walked back home and started playing, Mortal Kombat, like we were half those badasses ourselves. It seemed almost innocent enough. But no one could tell me that. No, I had encompassed everything that was vile in this world; with no one to send firebolts at me either. Me and Dylan pressed the buttons repeatedly that day, our thumbs always moving back and forth between them. The image of Keaton then was appearing grimly on the screen for me. But I continued to ignore him. I mashed the buttons and shifted the stick, my thumb ricocheting off and on between them. Dylan punched me and my character fell, while Keaton watched. We twitteled our thumbs, at the park and at home. And Keaton couldn't breathe. And neither should I.

A couple of years would pass by, and I was hitting my mid thirties. I was no longer haunted by the image of Keaton, but I wouldn't let him go either. I had to grow up fast and come to grips with my decision. I had a little girl on the way and a soon - to - be - made wife trying to steal popcorn from me in our cozy apartment. My hopes for a house yet to be seen, but I considered what my job had to offer and I was content. Life outside was pretty hectic, and we were all still cooped up inside due to Covid - 19. But I was actually feeling hopeful, in a time that seemed less so. I started to feel relieved. Our movie was finishing up with the credits rolling in. Another less apologetic superhero movie that my fiancee really wanted to see. I bit my tongue and sat there enjoying her company. Though I must say now, it wasn't the worst of those blockbusters I've ever seen. Including a furry raccoon and a funky spaceman with awesome tunes. I was never one to watch these myself but I get the appeal when it's with other people around you. I got up from the couch (which I had left an imprint after four movies later) to go to the bathroom and relieve myself even further. After my business was done I ran my hands through the sink and looked up at the mirror. If I had stayed up all these night's thinking about Keaton, I would look like the orange man himself. Trying to hide what's plain to see. I smirked at that and then went to dry my hands with a hanging towel. Leaving into the living room, I saw my fiancee looking disturbed. Her brows furrowed and a look of disgust came across her. I figured it was a gross out video on her phone but heard shouting come from it like a struggle was happening.

"Whatcha watching?" I said to her and placed myself next to her side.

"Look." She said, giving me her phone. I replayed the video and watched it. Another police filming. In Minneapolis. The struggle was apparent. And the restraint, unnecessary. Why, his knee? Then my heart skipped a beat and my mouth gaped. I couldn't breathe.