NEW WRITING:

The boy hit the wall with significance, with informal violence: "Break his skull!" - he heard behind him: "Fuck with his face!" Scared laughter washed over him as he stared with significance at the boy leaning against the wall in front of him. He shifted his head in question, narrowed his eyes with threat, but the boy just kept on leaning against the wall - no fear, no hate, no loathing, no excitement - nothing. He grabbed hold of the boys dirty white t-shirt and slammed him back into the wall - pulled him forward, and slammed once again - just for luck, for mercy, for anger, for something else. Laughter behind him, but nothing in front. The boy just stared at him, stared at him with long unblinking eyes. He was confused, didn't know what to do, how to be, how to function. There was a space, for someone else, a space for someone who could handle all this... stuff. But he was trapped, trapped between laughter and sniggers, trapped between wide-eyed significance. What could he do? What he could only do. He stroked the boys cheek with long soft fingers - pianist fingers his mother told him. The boy leant into his touch. So he formed a fist and punched him hard. Hard, then hard again. The whoops of joy behind him slid slowly down his back, as the boy in front of him remained impassive - wide-eyed with a blink.