epoynton
06-27-2009, 12:50 AM
This is a true story. I just finished writing it. It is also my first post here. I didn't know what to do with this piece so i'm going to put it here. Please tell me what you think from a literary point of view. Thanks,
Ed
------------------------------------------------------------------------
I got jumped on the way home. There were 3 of them. I think it was Nigel’s fault. He was shouting. They walked out of a house in front of us, and sat on the porch as we walked past. They stood up as we passed them and followed us. One of them engaged us in directed conversation as he undid his belt. He punched Nigel twice before I threw him off. Then he lashed out at me with the belt. His friends tried to restrain him but I think they were just for show. At first I didn’t know what to do. I don’t think I was scared but just shocked at lack of humanity on display. I defended myself with my hands but at some point lost my glasses. I managed to grapple him and can remember thinking if I should go for the testicles to try and disable him. I didn’t. In retrospect I think I made the right choice. I remember him asking if we “wanted to see his knife”. We made it to the end of the road and onto a busy main street where they left us. I called the police and described the incident. Although having drunk a fair amount I remember being exceptionally eloquent both on the phone and directly with the police that night. Whilst on the phone we were attacked again. At the time it didn’t cross my mind to detain him although I think it would have been unwise to engage him.
When the police arrived I remember I was shaking although it wasn’t because I was cold or scared. It was because I was exhilarated. The rush of adrenaline had my heart pounding. That attack was the first time I have felt truly alive. I am ashamed to say I am thinking of it as a right of passage into manhood. I have never been assaulted before but always imagined that in the face of an assailant would hold my ground on principle. Coming face to face with the situation has made me revaluate my character. I don’t know what to think anymore. Am I a coward for not retaliating? Now that I’m back home I am almost thankful for the experience and am thinking more about how I am going to tell the story to my friends than I am about my injuries. My face is going to be pretty messed up. I have two black eyes and a cut cheek. I was hit on the upper arm as well and on the back of the head. I didn’t identify most of these injuries until now. No doubt I will find more tomorrow. I have the taste of blood in my mouth. It seems to me as though I have derived a sick sort of pleasure out of this. Rarely are we drawn into such carnal conflicts in modern times but when we are I think our true form shows its face. I think the fact that I didn’t feel uncomfortable in the situation scares me the most. I haven’t been in a fight since I was ten year old and those were over in a few strikes. Here I felt the beat of my heart in my chest. The anticipation of a fist and the glint of a buckle in the air. Even now I can recall the contact with uncanny detail. On some level I think I was doing what my body was designed to do. To fight. Does that make me as bad as he is?
The police questioned us before one of the officers walked us back up the road to the locale of the attack. En route he found my glasses which despite a few scratches looked to be in good shape. The attackers had returned to their building and I knew we weren’t going to find them. Neither I nor Nigel could remember which building they had come out of. The policemen drove us around the area and then drove us home where they took descriptions and offered us medical assistance and photography of our injuries. We declined on both counts. Although my injuries will be visible for a week or too, they are not significant with regard those received by others, and I chose not to burden the health service and deprive the seriously injured of care. Although it sounds cavalier I think a large part of my decision was based on convenience. I couldn’t be bother to spend the remainder of the night receiving treatment when I could be home tucked up in bed. Actually that didn’t go as planned either. My heart was pumping so hard I couldn’t sleep, so I decided I would write this piece instead. It is the first time I have ever documented a passage of my life from my perspective, that is to say describing my feelings and emotions. I have never been much of an emotional person externally and have always had trouble revealing my feelings to others. Maybe this attack is what I needed to open my mind to the therapy of perjury. Right now it is 5.30 in the morning of the attack. I have spent the last thirty minutes writing this without pausing to think or compose any of my thoughts. This is a stream of conciousnous. My face hurts. I am afraid I might read this when I wake up and delete it and may never again muster courage to write what I think. Either way, I’ll wake a new man for better, or for worse.
Ed
------------------------------------------------------------------------
I got jumped on the way home. There were 3 of them. I think it was Nigel’s fault. He was shouting. They walked out of a house in front of us, and sat on the porch as we walked past. They stood up as we passed them and followed us. One of them engaged us in directed conversation as he undid his belt. He punched Nigel twice before I threw him off. Then he lashed out at me with the belt. His friends tried to restrain him but I think they were just for show. At first I didn’t know what to do. I don’t think I was scared but just shocked at lack of humanity on display. I defended myself with my hands but at some point lost my glasses. I managed to grapple him and can remember thinking if I should go for the testicles to try and disable him. I didn’t. In retrospect I think I made the right choice. I remember him asking if we “wanted to see his knife”. We made it to the end of the road and onto a busy main street where they left us. I called the police and described the incident. Although having drunk a fair amount I remember being exceptionally eloquent both on the phone and directly with the police that night. Whilst on the phone we were attacked again. At the time it didn’t cross my mind to detain him although I think it would have been unwise to engage him.
When the police arrived I remember I was shaking although it wasn’t because I was cold or scared. It was because I was exhilarated. The rush of adrenaline had my heart pounding. That attack was the first time I have felt truly alive. I am ashamed to say I am thinking of it as a right of passage into manhood. I have never been assaulted before but always imagined that in the face of an assailant would hold my ground on principle. Coming face to face with the situation has made me revaluate my character. I don’t know what to think anymore. Am I a coward for not retaliating? Now that I’m back home I am almost thankful for the experience and am thinking more about how I am going to tell the story to my friends than I am about my injuries. My face is going to be pretty messed up. I have two black eyes and a cut cheek. I was hit on the upper arm as well and on the back of the head. I didn’t identify most of these injuries until now. No doubt I will find more tomorrow. I have the taste of blood in my mouth. It seems to me as though I have derived a sick sort of pleasure out of this. Rarely are we drawn into such carnal conflicts in modern times but when we are I think our true form shows its face. I think the fact that I didn’t feel uncomfortable in the situation scares me the most. I haven’t been in a fight since I was ten year old and those were over in a few strikes. Here I felt the beat of my heart in my chest. The anticipation of a fist and the glint of a buckle in the air. Even now I can recall the contact with uncanny detail. On some level I think I was doing what my body was designed to do. To fight. Does that make me as bad as he is?
The police questioned us before one of the officers walked us back up the road to the locale of the attack. En route he found my glasses which despite a few scratches looked to be in good shape. The attackers had returned to their building and I knew we weren’t going to find them. Neither I nor Nigel could remember which building they had come out of. The policemen drove us around the area and then drove us home where they took descriptions and offered us medical assistance and photography of our injuries. We declined on both counts. Although my injuries will be visible for a week or too, they are not significant with regard those received by others, and I chose not to burden the health service and deprive the seriously injured of care. Although it sounds cavalier I think a large part of my decision was based on convenience. I couldn’t be bother to spend the remainder of the night receiving treatment when I could be home tucked up in bed. Actually that didn’t go as planned either. My heart was pumping so hard I couldn’t sleep, so I decided I would write this piece instead. It is the first time I have ever documented a passage of my life from my perspective, that is to say describing my feelings and emotions. I have never been much of an emotional person externally and have always had trouble revealing my feelings to others. Maybe this attack is what I needed to open my mind to the therapy of perjury. Right now it is 5.30 in the morning of the attack. I have spent the last thirty minutes writing this without pausing to think or compose any of my thoughts. This is a stream of conciousnous. My face hurts. I am afraid I might read this when I wake up and delete it and may never again muster courage to write what I think. Either way, I’ll wake a new man for better, or for worse.