The Hard Bounce

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The Boy was eight years old when he learned how to hate.

It’s still difficult, even today, for him to remember the events in their right order. He knows where they should go, but hard as he tries, they drift through his mind like glitterflakes in a snow globe.

The screaming and the blood followed the first explosion. That much he’s sure of. So much blood.

The second explosion. Running at him. Throwing himself at a grown man like a rabid animal unaware that it doesn’t stand a chance. He was big for his age. He still didn’t stand a chance.

Bang. He was gone. Just like that. Tumbling in and out of consciousness with no idea where he was. What time it was. Who or where he is.

Bang. He was back. A priest. He can’t understand him. The inside of an ambulance, feeling it hurtle through the Boston traffic, the doctor unable to control his tears as he tries to stem the tide of blood that won’t stop pouring out of him. The Boy didn’t know there was that much blood inside of him. He knew he would run out soon. He was terrified.

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