NEW WRITING:

He was hit full in the face, full in the face without a forethought. His face stung, his face throbbed, his face moved towards numb. He stared at the boy at the end of the fist. He had a face of anger, of brutality, of shock, and of infinite gentleness. He felt sorry for him - he always did. His own stupid face - that had put the boy with the fist where he was now. It was his own fault. His face was full of sad eyes distant, full lips for no one, freckles that never went away. He could never form a fist, even if he had tried, he wouldn't know how, wouldn't understand why he should. He was a target, always an instant target. Other boys saw that, knew that, and other boys needed that. So here he was, at the end of another fist held by another boy with nothing to prove, but needing to prove it anyway. A face that some saw as that of an angel, but far more saw as a freak, a contemptible and alluring punch bag.  We all have our role to play, we all have our story to unfold.