As he swung his foot back, preparing for a vicious kick, I pulled out the knife.
I lunged at him with the knife as he tried to kick me.
In a perfect world, the blade would have sunk deep into the bottom of his foot, soaking his slipper with blood. Perhaps the blade would have gone all the way through, popping out through the top of his foot. Mr. Martin would gape at it in shock and horror for a moment, and then let out a shriek of agony.
What actually happened is that he saw the knife just as he started the kick, so he stopped it in progress and did an awkward couple of hops backwards. I sat up and swung the knife at him, missing by so much that I’m not sure why I even bothered to take the swing.
“Oh, had a trick up your sleeve, huh?” Mr. Martin asked. He cracked his knuckles. “Things are getting interesting.”
I stood up. Despite having spent all that time outside in the cold, I was now starting to sweat. I pointed the knife at him. “Don’t make me use this,” I said. It sounded a lot more threatening in my head than when I said it out loud.
“I’m coming after you,” said Mr. Martin. “So when you use that knife, you’d better make it count. You’d better jam it into my throat or plunge it straight into my heart. If you just stab me in the arm or stick it in my side, that won’t be enough.”
I could scream for help.
If Ed came down, it would be two against one. And Ed was one of the biggest kids in school. Together we could beat him.
Probably.
But what if I got him killed? What if I had to watch while Mr. Martin twisted Ed’s neck until it snapped?
I couldn’t do it. And I couldn’t shout for him to call the police. Without evidence—such as the corpse of Todd Lester, recovered from its shallow grave—I was just some lunatic kid who’d broken into a man’s house and threatened him with a knife. I’d get more than three months in juvie for that.
I sure as hell didn’t want to die, but I couldn’t be responsible for other deaths.
“I have a backup plan,” I told him.
“I assumed you did from the very beginning. I don’t give a shit.”
I wiped some blood off my mouth and chin. There was more of it than I’d realized.
And then, without warning, I charged at him with the knife.
“Without warning” was the intention, anyway. I did not move with ninja-like prowess. He had enough time to brace himself for the attack. He stepped out of the way at the last instant and smacked me in the side of the head so hard that my ears started ringing and I thought he might have burst an eardrum.
He grabbed my jacket by the hood and yanked it. My head jerked backward. Then he shoved me forward, and I careened into a table, knocking over a lamp as I crashed to the floor.
Even with the padding, I hurt all over. This wasn’t like a movie. In real life, smashing into a table like this would mean a trip to the emergency room. It would ruin my entire day. But lying there in pain feeling sorry for myself was not an option if I wanted to still be alive a couple of minutes from now. I picked up the knife that I hadn’t realized that I’d dropped and forced myself to get up.
Mr. Martin had picked up one of his beer bottles.
He flung it at me, hitting me in the chest.
He grabbed another one and threw it. I’m not sure exactly where he was aiming, but if he’d been aiming for my funny bone on my right arm, his aim was perfect. My arm went numb and I dropped the knife again.
He picked up a third bottle. Now that I didn’t have a weapon, there was no need for him to throw it. He walked over to me with long strides and smashed the bottle against my head, shattering the glass.
Though I knew that it wouldn’t feel good, I could never have imagined how badly this would hurt. I was instantly dizzy. Blood streamed down my face.
Yet somehow I didn’t fall over.
There was a lot of blood dripping onto my jacket with a pattering sound, but I had to stay calm. Head wounds bled a lot. That was simply how it worked. It wasn’t as if he’d slashed open an artery or anything.
I realized that he was still holding the neck of the bottle.
He slammed the jagged glass into my chest.
It didn’t pierce my jacket.
He slammed it again, even harder.
My jacket still protected me.
With his third attempt, the glass went through my jacket and pierced my skin.
I punched him in the jaw. It was an accurate punch, and a surprisingly hard one; unfortunately, I was still wearing my gloves. This time, the padding worked against me instead of in my favor. It had an impact, but he didn’t drop to the floor unconscious.
My left eye started to burn as blood trickled into it.
He slammed the broken bottle into my chest again, then grabbed my jacket with both hands and threw me across the room. I smashed into a record player, knocking it off its stand and also spilling twenty or thirty vinyl records onto the floor.
I stopped myself from falling by grabbing his recliner. There was a big spatter of blood where I’d hit the wall. I couldn’t see out of my left eye now.
This should have been the part where I regretted coming here. It had been a horrible mistake. I was going to die. I hadn’t done a goddamn thing to avenge Todd’s
