Work Text:
In a small Austrian town, behind a row of brick buildings, a boy of about eight lay bruised and bloodied, limbs curled defensively around himself. His glasses sat, crumpled beyond repair, several yards away in a rusty red pool where he’d had his face smashed into the paving stones.
Max assessed his work, blank face offering no trace of either remorse or satisfaction, then turned to leave his victim whimpering on the ground alone. Twice the size of boys his age with half the moral fiber, he was the perfect agent of other bullies in exchange for a bit of pocket money or leftover lunch. Inarticulate, obese, completely bald, and eerily detached, there were few other roles he seemed fit to occupy.
“They’re not your friends, you know…” said the boy, struggling to his feet. “They laugh at you behind your back…They don’t like you anymore than me. They think you’re an idiot.”
“I know,” he said without looking back.
“Then why do you listen to them? Are you afraid of them?”
Max huffed. He wasn’t afraid of anything, as long as his mother was happy at least. He continued walking. His reasons were his own, and he had no desire to waste his energy trying to verbalize them. Then, an idea struck him. He turned and began walking back until he stood mere inches from the boy, almost pinning him against the wall behind him.
A wicked smile crossed his face as he pulled back for another blow. The boy braced reflexively. He could feel the breeze as the giant fist dove into the brick, just missing his head by a hair’s width, leaving a crater in the wall as Max let his arm fall, once again, at his side. Blood dripped from his knuckles, but he was unbothered. He’d made his point. He turned away once again, and this time, there were no more questions.