The sun had sank rather low in the sky, signaling that though he didn't have a clock to tell him the time, it was probably nearing seven in the evening at this point. The smell of blood lingered in the air, though it wasn't as suffocating as it had been to him seconds before. His hands were still trembling, fingers still twitching almost involuntarily, causing unintentional shivers to race through the marrow of his spine, jerking his whole body awkwardly. Despite not being sure he wanted to look back, green eyes drifted over the bloody pavement, coming to settle on the first visible glimpse of flesh that didn't belong to him. Laying in a pool of sanguine liquid was the hand that had the nerve to snake itself across his mouth -- that dared to deprive him of the much - needed oxygen for what had felt like hours.
He stared hard at the curled fingers. One of them had been bent and snapped in the initial struggle, and was now cocked at an inhuman angle. It was a passing thought in the flurry of oncoming musings how the Hell the bone had managed to break that way and not shred the skin to twist it into that ghastly shape. His eyes trailed lower, along the arm, coming to another short stop on the face. If the cops happened to wander across the body and give half a damn, even if they somehow managed to track the sick fucker's own mother, there wasn't a chance in Hell that she'd be able to identify what was left. Bone fragments and cartilage; blood and chipped teeth; splatters of brain matter. That's all there was in place of what had once been his head.
He swallowed, but there was nothing but the motion -- his mouth and throat were parched. He hadn't even been aware of the fact until now. He looked away when he felt a wave of nausea sweep over him, taking a tight grip on his stomach. He wretched, and it felt like someone was trying to pull every organ residing in his abdomen up through his throat. Setting his hands to the ground, he crawled on his knees further away from the body, ducking against a trash can, and emptied the contents of his stomach graciously onto the cracked and worn asphalt. It took at least ten minutes then for him to get a hold of himself, and calm down. Coughing, he spit out what was left in his mouth, then scooted back a few inches, dropping on his ass.
Exhaustedly, he dropped his head back against the metal cylinder he had sought refuge behind, and closed his eyes. " Oh, Christ ... " Shaky hands moved to tuck themselves under his arms to try and calm the jitters, but his whole body was now wracked with the tremors. Throat tightening, he rolled his head against its support, and peeked around. For half a second, his heart jumped into his throat when he didn't immediately catch sight of the hand. Oh God, oh God, oh God -- But it hadn't moved at all. It remained right where it was, and it was simply his own miscalculations that had caused the scare. Nothing was different from how he left it. Everything was okay, still. Everything was alright.
It must have been another fifteen minutes or so sitting there staring at the hand before he managed to find himself capable of moving again. Pressing himself up uncertainly, Leroy slowly ventured over to the corpse. His eyes searched it, as if to answer the questions that he was too afraid to ask. Lifting a foot, he stepped over the swollen abdomen of the crumpled body, and slowly lowered himself into a crouch on his toes, resting his arms on his thighs. He felt an oncoming tsunami of queasiness, but he fought it down. The fucker had had it coming. He'd deserved this.
He stepped onto the bus, and gave the man a light, half - smile. Greetings were exchanged, and the young teen trailed to take an empty seat toward the middle of the mostly empty vehicle. He never liked the front, because he felt obligated to speak to the driver, although that wasn't allowed. And where he would usually take the back, there was someone sitting back there already. A rotund, balding, bespectacled man. Something about him was unsettling, but Leroy offered a friendly smile, getting one and a nod in response. He took his seat, and sank down into it, smile fading into a grimace. His mother wasn't going to be happy at all about the fact he had gotten detention again ...
Lost in his own thoughts, he didn't really take notice to the eyes boring into the back of his head. He was too busy tumbling excuses through his mind to worry about the man the back. ' He started it ' wasn't going to fly. She was getting sick and tired of that one. ' Boys will be boys ' wasn't saving his ass anymore, either, and his father had stopped trying. He couldn't rely on the usual excuses, but a plausible one that might actually work seemed an impossible feat.
The driver announced the street as he turned onto a new lane, and Leroy - defeated by time - sighed, and reached up to hook his fingers around the pull string, and gave it a gentle tug to send a dinging signal to the man behind the wheel to pull over at the next stop. He had hoped he could ride the whole way home, but with the fact he had absolutely nothing to tell his mother, well, he was starting to decide better of that. For his ass's sake.
He slithered out of his seat when the bus began to slow, and stood, grabbing the bar to steady himself until it came to a complete halt. He gave a quick smile, and raised a hand to wave, then slipped out the back door since it was closer due to his seating. As he turned to start walking, he noticed that the older man had gotten off as well. He spared a glance back at him, and smiled again -- this time, more uncertainly -- when he noticed that he seemed to be the object of his attention. He got a nod and a smile again.
What a fucking creep, he thought to himself. Adjusting his backpack, he took to the street in a slow jog. He wasn't in any hurry to get home, but he wasn't exactly excited to be standing anywhere near that guy, either. It didn't take him very long at all to realize that the man was following him.
His quivering fingers slowly pressed against the blood - matted material of the wind breaker, and slid down the length of it, searching for the pockets. All jackets had them, didn't they? Even if you couldn't see them right away, he was pretty certain that everyone who designed jackets was practical enough to design them with pockets. He finally caught one with his thumb on the second go, and he dropped his weight into his heels, re - situating himself over the body as he dug through it. He met with what he was looking for fairly quickly, and pulled out the wallet. It took a moment to fumble with the clasp, but he got it undone, and flipped it open, met instantly with the man's identification card.
Quirking his mouth, he swallowed, and looked over his shoulder. No one was there, and he knew that no one was going to be, but he couldn't help the need to check anywho. After reassuring his muddled brain that he was in fact alone, and that he would not be caught there, he reached into the little plastic - protected pocket of the wallet, and pulled out the ID. He then tossed the leather billfold into the gory mess, and pulled himself to stand up.
He paused a long moment, then delivered a swift kick into the man's ribs. " ... Fuck you, " he spat, but his voice didn't carry the malicious venom that he had imagined. Instead, he sounded nearly on the verge of tears. He shoved the card into his pocket, then stepped back again. " ... Who the fuck ... Do you think you are? "
He ducked into an alley, the hammering of his sneakers on the ground and the blood pounding in his ears was all he could make any sense of. The world around him had become a snowstorm of twisted hues and shades in such a way it almost made him dizzy. He whirled around to kick over an old pile of cardboard boxes, then dove underneath an old rusted - out fence. As he squirmed underneath, his backpack caught. He quickly slipped his arms from the straps, and pulled himself off the ground, running as fast as he could. Tears began to blur his vision.
Home, was all he could think right then and there. I have to get home. Since when was home so far away from the corner market? He choked on a sob when he heard the rattling of the chain - link fence behind him. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Stumbling, he skid around a corner, but lost his footing against the oddly - slick sidewalk. He crashed to the ground, a sharp crack in his jaw shooting pain through him, jarring his brain. He whimpered as his mouth filled with blood -- had he bitten his tongue? -- but gathered his hands underneath himself to spring up again. He didn't have time, no time to sit here like this, he couldn't --
A heavy weight suddenly fell against his back, forcing him down again, and an awkwardly large hand fumbled, catching around his mouth, pressing hard. He struggled to breath through his now flaring nostrils, but between the weight on his back, and the hand on his mouth, breathing was a luxury he didn't have the access to.
The tears that had been welling up during his run now spilled from the corners of his eyes, sliding down his cheeks. The only thought that he could muster as he closed his eyes tightly was, I'm gonna die.
Shooting one last look at the mangled gore, he stepped away, backing up a few steps before turning around, and bolting for home. He didn't care that he had lost one of his shoes during the struggle, and hadn't even noticed till now. Didn't care that his backpack was lost somewhere behind him. Didn't care, didn't matter. All he knew was he needed to get home.