You cannot eat an orange without first peeling an apple.

A person may say to you that you will have no idea how it is to live in their shoes until you point out that you stole a pair of their shoes.

*****
Imagination is faster than any speeding bullet. Elliot Cramell sits lethargically in a grey fabric task chair as another day at his desk job slowly creeps by. He lays his head on the desk, resting his eyes for a moment, only to be revived by the sound of a blaring Cisco phone from a cubical next to his. His head shoots up in excitement; as if an alarm went off; like a scared rabbit scurrying out of his hole. Then the adrenaline wears off, and boredom began to seep into him again. As he composes himself, he sees a small picture of his grandparents through his cobwebbed daze. "You are such a funny boy." Elliot's grandfather would say. "One day your imagination is going to take you places."
"Hardly." Elliot scoffs quietly as he sluggishly sits up in his chair. The clock sadly tells him that only an hour has past on this Wednesday fall morning. He wipes his hands over his face, morphing his skin in odd facial expressions that would delight a 5 year old. He lets out a yawn and re-situates himself in is chair. He stares at the picture once again.
It's been many years since he has seen his grandparents. His grandfather was quite a big man. The outdoors roughened his skin, coloring his body with a even dark brown tan. He warmly stood over Elliot's dainty grandmother. Her grey hair was coiled perfectly; each curl seemed to have been manipulated flawlessly; her pale and freckled hands sat on her lap. "I wish I had time to say good bye." Elliot murmured. He trailed his finger down the portrait, as if scanning his grandfather's brutish figure and down to his grandmother's pale and delicate body. He put the picture down, closed his eyes and imagined the farm. He felt the long grass whip against his khaki pants. The brisk breeze swims through his stringy black hair. And with a deep breath of the country air, he marched his way to the barn. "Hey, wasn't Elliot here just a minute ago?" a co-worker asked. And where Elliot sat was scattered grass shaving and the hint of country air slowly sinking to the ground.

Where have I done?

Blood is everywhere. Is it mine? I can't tell anymore. My fists. I can't feel my fists.
Stop punching.
Stop punching.
My hands. Look at my hands.
Gaping wounds. My knuckles. They are bleeding. What has happened to me?
What have I become?

He steps back. Out of breath, each pulse registering throughout his body. He can feel it rushing through his body.

tha thump
tha thump
tha thump
tha thump

His back hits the creamed painted brick wall. Sliding down, letting the grooves guide him down until his bottom hit the floor. The blood flows through his knuckles but he feels nothing.

The canvas in front of him. Blood splattered against the wall. It sneered down; forming in the crevases. Slowly drying out. It was becoming darker.

Was there someone here? What was I punching? My hands. I feel them again. I cannot move them.

Dark red gashes line his fist. Feeling begins to come back to him. He can't feel his hands anymore. The pain is so emmense, it feels like his hands were in ice water. It cannot be described.

A fluorecent light flickers off and on as in some sort of taunting morse code. The floor has not been cleaned in days. Fucking janitors.

I gotta stop this bleeding.

Daintly, he takes off his shirt to get off his undershirt, wrap up his wound.

Fuck. It hurts. He tries to flex but each bring a lightning strike of pain through his body. He winces. He pulls off his shirt. Breathing hard, holding back the screams inside. They might here them? Who?

He stops. He looks down the hallway.

Good, not here.

Ripping the shirt in two. The only way he can cover both fists. Deep breaths now.

One.
Two.

Retaliation.

Just kill me now. Just do it.

Is there a bathroom here? Get yourself up. Get on up.

Get up.
Get up.
Get up.

I need a doctor. I need to see a doctor.

FUCK, the pain. I can't feel my hands now. Everything is going numb. Fear begins to set in.

Am I going to be alright? Shit. I don't want to die.

Please God. Don't let me die.
Please God. Tell me what will happen.
Please God. What will happen now?

The bloodpaint dries on the wall. It looks oddly familiar. The more I fade out, the more it looks like...

Please God. Let me be alright.

What have I done?

---

What have I done here? This has always been a scene for a beginning of a movie I have wanted to make? What exactly does it mean? What does the character done? Has he beaten himself? Has he beaten someone else? I wanted him to be overwhelmed with anger, adrenaline, overcome with the power of emotion.

Anger that has built up. One after another. Throwing him into a concentrated blind rage. As the condition weared off, he comes back to his normal state. His feelings coming back slowly but powerfully. As if he was unable to control it. He likes control, but was unable to control himself.

Does he find a way to a hospital? A doctor? Does he pass out with the image of his bloodportrait in his mind? Engraved? Certainly, he will live. I wanted to give the reader the knowledge that blood has been lost, but not enough that he will bleed to death. We can imagine that a hallway, about the size of any normal length in a classroom building; a portion of it is splattered with blood, focusing on the two fist marks that he was making. The more you stare at it, the more it begins to take shape. A person? An object? That is the beauty of the imagination. It can embed whatever notion you want it to be.

Ever try looking at the clouds and do you swear that one cloud looks like a dog chasing a stick? Or God lunging out with a lightning bolt attacking another puff of cloud that resembles a turtle? To that person, it may be a throne, with a man pointing outwards at something. Perhaps at the car shaped cloud over to the north.

That is the beauty of imagination.

Exactly what this can be. I don't have anything planned out, layed out, concieved for the future. It will all flow as through my conciousness; as one; not to stop. Until I feel it is fit.

I wasn't going to write today. I had a massive headache. It is kind of scary thinking about it, your body heats itself up to kill off an organism trying to take over you, attack your cells, your body. What did I have? The flu? A disease? Can't keep myself but wondering what exactly is going on. Christ.

Sometimes those headaches can be some crippling. The pounding on your forehead. Vision blurred and sensitivity to light. A simple lamp light can even be blinding. As if a ship of men, pounding, marching one after one. You can only lie in your bed and let the pounding continue. I even feel that sometimes, headaches can come straight out of my forehead, and that a stream of fluid will come out; instant relief. Anything, just anything to make it stop. To feel normal. To walk around.

It may not even be the sickness either. People...yes. People can give you headaches. Sometimes, just sometimes that can make you so angry. So angry inside. You want to yell at them. Feeling every muscle tighten inside. Face becoming red; filling with anger. Your hands the veins they begin to enlarge. The blood rushes through them faster and faster. You feel powerful, on top of the world. Taking on an entire army. Talking it out is out of the question. No time to reason, to think. Only to hit. Only for flesh to flesh contact.

Bring it on. Your fingers clench, they form the fist. They almost penetrate the skin as your fingernails dig deep into your palm. Your chest tightens and you feel a power, an urge, a bloodlust begin to leak through. It is a drug. A state of euphoria. You only begin to slightly cackle as your eyes begin to feel the pulsing as the rest of your body does.

Tha thump.
Tha thump.
Tha thump.
Tha thump.

Quicker, yes. Faster, yes! More! More power! Bring this fool down. Friends? Not anymore. Best thought that one through, buddy, pal. Think to fuck with me any farther? No. You will pay. You will pay for your sins, sinner. An eye for an eye. Feel the pain as I rock with you with each fist. Each blow you will remember. I will beat you until you cannot feel. Close to death, to feel God. Run towards the light. Be rid of your soul; from this planet. You scum.

You blackout, I am still going, still throwing the punches. You feel some connect,sometimes not. Becoming oblivious to the world around you. Unable to stop. Please...stop.

...

Blood is everywhere. Is it mine? I can't tell anymore. My fists. I can't feel my fists.
Stop punching.
Stop punching.
My hands. Look at my hands.
Gaping wounds. My knuckles. They are bleeding. What has happened to me?
What have I become?

As the class began to grow with young adults from the hallways, rumor came around that today's class was going to be taught by a substitute teacher, or what they liked to call "their next target."

James strutted into class with a swagger of confidence. He slides through the rows to the back desk, smirking slyly to the girls who giggle as he passes.

"Samulson!" James announces. "Today is a good day my friend."

James plops down on his desk, letting his hands collapse on the top making a loud thunderous slam. Sam sat slouched with a dazed over look expression that gazed blankly at the black slate of chalkboard. He aimlessly extended his right arm into the aisle. James slapped it with authority.

"Everything a go?" James asked.

"Yep."

"Hot swap the list?"

"Pee Wee Herman. Yours?"

"Youlika MaNuts."

"Clever sir, clever."

"Thank you my dear Samulson. I do my best."

"It's Sam, James."

"Oh but my dear Samulson, how can I be so informal with a great day such as this?"

"You shut the fuck up if you know whats good for you."

"What do you me-"

"James is your middle name." Sam said as he cocked his head towards James with a great big grin on his face.

James face lit up, he leaned in towards Sam.

"Dude, don't ruin this day, please."

"Oh my dear James, this day can't be ruined."

Sam put his arms towards the celiing as if he was calling God down from the heavens.

"We are going witness another substitute flying out of this class faster than a fish going through Pike's Place. Besides, this is a delcious piece of black mail I can use on you later down the road."

James gave Sam a disconcerning glare but leaned back into his seat.

"What about the rest? Map?"

"Nice and loose."

"And the chair?"

"One way ticket to the great pleateau's of River City High School floor."

"And the ammo?"

"Lock, stocked and ready for stickin."

Sam pulled out a straw and a little container of rolled up paper balls from the front pocket of his backpack, ready to be doused by spit.

"You know, don't you think this is getting a bit immature? The whole spitball thing?" questioned James

"I figure we got this year before we retire it." Sam shrugged.

The bell rang and the last of the class filled the seats all around him. The torture room was ready. 30 desks, 5 rows of 6 stretching all the way to the back of the room. A lone wooden desk and chair stand front and center with matching wooden counters lining the right side of the class. The windows leaked light at the 11 oclock hour and at that certain angle where you can see little dust particles dancing in the rays.

The hallways began to filter out, doors began to shut and the class began to fill with murmmers and whispers.

Where is the teacher?

Do you think one will show

Ten more minutes and I'm outta here

James put his feet up on desk and put himself in a hammock like position.

"Dude, do you think we scared this person off this quick?"

Sam shrugged.

"Did you spike the man's coffee?"

"No, but I like what you are thinking."

"A worthy replacement to the ammo it would seem." James commented.

Minutes pass by. The classdoor was still open to the hallway. The whispers turned into talk.

This guy isn't going to show.

Fuck, I should take a nap.

Watch, the principal will come and teach our class

A pleased face morphed upon James.

"Well, while tortured teacher would have been neat, I certainly don't mind this day off. Shall we call it? Samulson?"

"Sounds good to me."

They begin to stand in victory. The class begins to notice. The time to leave seemed to be the top priority for the students in River City's English class today.

But something stopped them. An object, no, a missle. A brown missle. It shot from the hallway. It shot as from a cannon. It crashed magnicificantly on the pull down map with a great smash. The map dropped to the floor and rattled loudly as the ends hit one by one until it stopped. The students, now in a daze of wonder freeze in place. Not a peep came from their mouths.

In stepped the substitute. It was as if Jesus himself stepped in the room. The class slowly lowered to their seats, their mouths hung open. He walked with a stride, with confidence, with style, with experience into the classroom. His brown brushed back hair showed a complete full face that was tan, with dark black stubble and deep hazel eyes that seemed to illuminate the room as the children stared. He donned a white and blue striped collar shirt and pressed light brown khakis, ironed down the middle. His figure stood strong, tall, authoritatively. A man you wouldn't want to be seeing down an end of a dark alley.

He gazed around the floor and found his shoe. He picked it up and examined it, as if it were damaged.

"I dropped this." he announced. The sub placed the shoe back on his foot and stood in front of the class, staring down the rows, at the children as if he was personally scanning each one of them.

James and Sam were completely dumbfounded. For awhile, it was as if they forgot they existed. It was them, and the teacher. No one else.

With a quick boot, the sub kicked the wooden chair from the bottom tossing it halfway in the air, causing a leg to fly disjointedly through the air, only to be snatched right from it with a strong grasp of his hand.

He placed it on the desk and picked up the attendance sheet for the class. He quicklyed skimmed the paper and looked up again at the class.

Expressionless faced. Hushed. Quiet.

He turned the paper horizontally and made a quick tear staight through the paper. And with the two halves, he crumpled them into small balls and tossed them in the garbage can next to the door.

The sub turns around towards the chalkboard and walks back and forth, trailing the railing with his fingers, catching the chalk particles on his tips. He finds a 12 inch ruler and picks it up. He examines it, much like his shoe and begins to tap it on his palm.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

He paces the front of the room.

Expressionless. Hushed. Quiet.

He comes to the first row of the room. Billy Marcus sat there. The classroom brown noser. Except he wasn't any different from today. He was like all of them. Scared shitless.

The sub kneeled down towards him. He held the ruler out in front of him. Firm, steady. His hazel eyes staring right at him, straight through him.

"What is this?" the sub askes.

Billy stares at it, confused, scared, afraid to answer. He takes a big gulp but doesn't answer.

"What is this" the sub askes again.

Billy's eyes dart. As if someone from the shadows will come to slit his throat. He is afraid to answer, but also afraid not too.

"A ruler, sir." Billy peeps.

The sub lowers the ruler slowly and stands up. With a solid strike, the ruler comes in contact with Billy's arm with a small smacking noise. The class gasps. The sub walks past him to the next in the row. Billy rubs his arm carefully not while he stares, transfixed on the sub.

Amy Maclure was next. "What is this?" the sub asks.

"That is a ruler - "

She gets cut off. He slaps the ruler against her arm. It slaps and he moves on to Patricia Miller.

"What is this?" he asks.

"Will I get slapped if I get it wrong?"

The sub shrugs. He asks again.

"What is this?"

"It's..its a ruler! I don't kn-"

"Wrong." he states and slaps her arm.

One by one, the sub goes through the class bopping everyone in the arm. Curtis Pederson, Nancy Smith, Betsy MaClure. All rulers. All smacked. For those that tried to save their arm were recieved with a nice bop on the head instead.

The sub reaches Sam. He askes the same question.

"What is this?"

"I'm - I'm not going to answer." Sam studders.

The class turns around the face Sam. His sudden stand of courage is viewed as foolish to many in the class.

"Everyone else did" the sub states.

"Yeah, they did. And they all got hit."

"That they did."

"I'm not letting you hit me with that thing again?"

The sub kneels down towards Sam. His eyes have him paralyzed. He wants to dart; leave, escape. But he can't.

"What" the sub askes, looking dantly upon the ruler. "...is this?"

"I..I don't understand!" Sam cracks.

"Why are you hurting us? Why are you hurting us with that! You are using it like a weapon!" James blurts out.

The sub stands up. He walks down the desk lane. Patting the ruler on his palm.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

He points the ruler to the ceiling of the class.

"A ruler, a wooden measuring device, a stick, a "dead tree" is what you think this is." He turns to face the class. "But, as our friend pointed out; THIS"

And with a great slam, he slams the ruler straight on the desk, snapping it in two.

"...is a weapon."

The sub walks towards on of the window. He stares out it momentarly, the rays of sunlight shine upon him. He opens the window and sticks his head out. With the parking lot ahead of him, a full yard of green grass greets him on the first floor classroom.

He points to the back of the room towards James.

"You, what's your name?"

"J-james. Sir." he chokes out.

"Are you cetain?"

"Certain? Y-yeah, er, Yes. James Lindermount."

"Lindermount?" The sub questions. James nods in approval.

"Come up here." The sub states. He motions for James to come by the window. Slowly, James begins his march towards the window. He stands opposite of the sub of the window.

"Look out and tell me what you see."

"A parking lot. With cars. Parked within the yellow lines. Some of them are leaving. One of them is coming in right now." James looks up at the sub.

"Keep going."

"I see the grass. It's green. Some weeds are poking through the grass, some of it looks dead. There are also trees."

"What kind of trees Lindermount?"

"I...I don't know. They are trees."

"Just trees? Are you sure about that Lindermount?"

"Y,yeah. Trees. They are trees!" he exclaims.

"Couldn't they be homes?" the sub asks. James stares out the window.

"If you looked at them in that way, yes. Yes, they could be homes."

The sub quickly closes the window. Slamming it with authority. He points towards the window.

"Now tell me what this is." he demands.

"It's a window."

"You're wrong. What is this." The sub continues to points.

"It's a uh...its a frame."

"Wrong again. What is this."

"Uhh..uhh a metal fragment, glass. Frames, a square, rectangle. I don't know."

"You're wrong, wrong and wrong again. WHAT IS THIS?" he bellows.

"I DON'T KNOW! IT'S JUST A WINDOW! WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE? WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO US? WHY DON'T YOU LEAVE!" James snaps.

The sub stares right into James. The confidence James had has now sizzled away into nothing. He was brought down. He felt small, almost put in place. Ashamed.

The sub opens the window again. He kicks out the bug guard and it tumbles out in the grass. He takes one leg and puts it outside, and begins to straddle the window sill.

"You know what I see, when I look at Lindermount?" the sub announces. "I see a boy. I see fright. I see a boy who is beaten."

James stands, humiliated in front of the class.

"I also see a liar. Isn't that right, Evelyn?"

James face turns a bright red.

"Also, when I look at this. At what most of you call a window. I look at it as an exit. Class dismissed."

The sub throws his other leg out and plops on the grass. He then dissppears from view. And with that, the bell rings. The hallways begin to fill. The class still sits stunned at what exactly happened.

"Well, there goes that piece of black mail."

"Benjamin! Can you come up here for a second!" my father bellows.

Benjamin sits in front of a television, covered in a down blanket nearly half asleep. His father's voice nearly scared him.

"Yeah, yeah I'm coming" Benjamin groaned.

He kicked off the down comforter and trudged upstairs to what was probably another punishment for not making his bed or forgetting to do the dishes for another night.

"I'll do the dishes tonight Dad. I'm sorry I forgot again." Benjamin called up when climbing the stairs.

To his surprize and almost dismay, his Father was doing them. Father motioned him to sit at one of the chairs in the kitchen.

"Have a seat." he said in a calm voice.

Benjamin slowly took a seat at the far end of the table, staring at Father.

"How are you doing Ben?" he asked.

"I'm doing alright" Ben answered puzzledly

"I just wanted to check up with you, see how you are doing."

"Check up on me?"

"Yeah, I feel as a father, and with you being a growing boy that we have these talks"

"These talks? Oh boy here it is."

Father continued to do the dishes, with this odd look of confidence in his voice.

"Have you met any girls Benjamin?" he asked.

"Not many...no."

"Have you, considered possibly asking a girl -"

"No. N-no Dad. I haven't." I interrupted.

"Well, you know you are getting to that age where your body-"

"...goes through a lot of changes, yes I know. I know all about it."

"You do?" he questioned.

"Yeah, for the most part, I do." I heaved.

"Well, thats good. That's good Benjamin. Do you like anyone right now?" he asked.

"Yeah, I guess I do. But, they are completely out of my league."

"Well, it never hurts to ask or something."

"I don't know. I guess I'm not really looking. There aren't a lot of girls that like the same stuff I do."

"I suppose that is understandible." Father said.

He finished up the rest of the dishes and leaned up against the fridge.

"Well, thats all I wanted. You know, just a check up. I knew it would be easy with you."

"Well how'd you know that?" Benjamin asked.

"You are a smart kid Benjamin. For the most part."

"For the most part? What does that supposed to mean?"

Father walked over to where Benjamin was sitting and patted him on the head. Messing up his hair.

"Next time, just clean up really good in the shower when you are done okay?"

A look of horror came across Benjamin's face.

"Thanks, buddy. I know that will be the last time."

At the tender age of 14, my Steven had already began to push the limits of his 'rebel' phase of his life. Although he was still to young to drive, his bedtimes turned into curfews which (in worse cases) turned into early mornings and next day bitch outs for him when he would go out with his friends. Girls had begun to enter his life, calling the house and usually kicking me off the internet. And even a friendly police encounter which lead my parents to the front door of the house with my brother, head hanging in shame as he held a lighter and half burnt t-shirt. What could my parents do? Grounding him in his room was temporary, taking away the television did nothing to phase him and keeping him away from his friends seemed to antagonize him further.

It was one summer evening. Some neighbor friends of our parents came over for a small bonfire. Their children came along as well. They were around my brother's age. Their own little group that would float from inside our house, to the outside and back drinking Coke's. I was outside shooting some basketball with Sam, my youngest brother. I wasn't really good at it. I had to use a smaller basketball. It was easier for me to shoot, dribble even make slam dunks when the height was at 7 feet. As Sam called it quits for the night and walked back inside, out came Steven and his followers of jackasses.

"Hey, don't you have a match or something for your little computer game soon?" sneered Steven.

"Usually its the bigger brother who gives the smaller brother a harder time." I noted.

Steven walks onto the driveway towards me having a nice little smirk on his face. I quickly shoot the ball out of my hands and it bounces hard off the backboard. Steven runs to grab it.

I stand where I was as Steven begins to dribble all around me. He shoots the ball behind me and makes quite an impressive shot.

"Woo, thats what I'm talking about!" he cheers.

"Can I have my basketball back? There is more in the garage."

"Why don't you get those balls?"

"They suck, besides I had that one first."

Steven holds up the basketball.

"Oh, this one?" He holds it out in front of me before throwing it hard against my chest. He smiles wryly and makes his way to the garage. My anger rises.

"You know, you've got quite an ego for a 14 year old."

He doesn't respond. I dribble for a couple moments and shoot again. It hits off the rim and cascades down towards the cement. I run for the ball, only to be cut off by him darting in front of me. My anger rises.

"Steven, give me back the ball."

He passes the ball hard at me once again towards my face. I barely catch it.

"What's your problem?" I shout. I spike the ball on the ground and march towards him.

"You wanted the ball, I was just giving it to you. Nerd!" He yells. His friends laugh in approval. My anger his the limit.

"I'm sick and tired of you Steven!" I scream. I lunge after him and grapple him. We scuffle back and forth past the driveway out in the front yard. He pushes away only before I grab at him again, despriately trying to throw him to the ground.

"Dude, get off me." he says as we continue to struggle. I grab his shirt, my hand has a firm grasp of his collar. He tries to break free but the anger channeled towards my hands. Bright red. Blood flowing.

He knows I'm angry. He sees the hate in my face. His game he played wasn't so funny. It was a blur. To what felt like an eternity was only a matter of seconds. I threw him towards the cement. I threw him as hard as I could. I thought of all of his arrogance, his disrespect, his teasing. I focused it all. And I threw him.

He his the cement hard with a sickening thud. He almost seemed to bounce off like on a mat of sorts. He cried out in pain. His friends stood up from the stairs they sat at and only looked on in disbelief. I was breathing heavily. I stood over him.

This is what you get

Don't ever do this again.

I hate you

Sam rushed out with our parents. My brother cried out in pain still. He tried to grab towards his right shoulder but cried out in pain. My mom rushed over to him and made sure he was alright.

"Steven, can you move your shoulder? Steven, it's going to be okay. Steven." my mom soothed.

A small crowd of our neighbors came out to peek.

"He might have a dislocated shoulder but he should be okay." my mother announced. "Lets get him up."

***

"Steven, come here! We have something for you." my mother called out. We were all i n the living room and saw Steven march up from the downstairs to where we were.

"We all wanted to give you something for your graduation honey." my mother smiled. Steven sat on the couch quietly as my mother held out a big book in front of him.

"We did this for your brother when he graduated and now we have one for you too!"

He quietly flips through the pages. He smiles, points out particular pictures and chuckles.

"Wow, this is great Mom. You did all of this?"

"I worked on it all year. I wanted you to have it before you went to college."

He finished the book and looked at it and began to swell up. He began to cry.

"Thank you momma." he cried.

My mom came to hug him. He embraced back.

That was the first time I ever saw my brother cry. It was the first time I ever saw him actually...in that state. A complete state of emotion. I never saw him like that nor did I ever expect it. I tried to watch the television and trying to look away but I couldn't help but think.

I stood up and made my way outside. Sam was outside, shooting hoops with the same small basketball I used many years ago. He shoots the ball up and it smacks against the backboard and falls. I reach over to pick it up. He stands with hands in front of him ready to catch it. I smile and pass it over to him.

"Keep at it little guy."