ELLIOT THE WEAK

It’s an unusually cold night for California. Bitter wind whips through the playground, making the rusted swings squeak. A shiver runs down my spine, partially from the chill and partially from fear.

“Elliot,” A voice calls from the fog between buildings.

“César, por favor no,” I call back, grimacing at the pleading whine in my voice.

“Elliot, mijo,” He mocks, stepping out from the alleyway, his sly grin flashing in the flickering streetlight.

I back up, pressing my back against the cold chain-link fence behind me. I start desperately looking around the park for a way of escape as César advances. Behind me and to my left is eight feet of chain link. I’m tall enough to grab the top of it, but nowhere near strong enough to hoist myself over it. Ahead of me and to my right are graffiti-marked brick walls and boarded-up windows. The only entrances to the park are the alleyway César now blocks and a gate in the chain link, padlocked, and at the far end of the yard.

I have no choice.

I start looking around desperately for a weapon.

“I saw your mother, Elliot,” César spits. He drags a gnarly wooden bat along the ground, leaving trails in the dirt.

“She was worried sick when I told her Muerte Del Padre was looking for you,” César grins sickeningly and I grit my teeth.

“Is mama okay?” I demand.

Cold wind wraps around my hands as the rain starts to slap the ground around us.

“I told her I was looking for you, trying to help you. She told me that when I find you, I should tell you not to come home. Expect the locks to be changed, mijo, she doesn’t want any gangsters in her house,”

I lunge to my right, where the fence meets the buildings, aiming for a loose board on the ground, but César reaches me first, knocking me off my feet with a swift kick.

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“We could’ve been great, Elliot,” He growls, dragging me up by my collar.

I can’t help but yelp in pain, my chest heaving as he pins me against the wall, gripping my jaw and digging his dirty fingernails into my skin.

“After what you did to me, mijo, I should kill you. The way you ruined my name when I was just trying to help you. Killing you would be my repentance,” He spits at me and I flinch, struggling against him.

“You, your power, Elliot, you could’ve ruled the world,”

I choke on a laugh, clawing at César’s hands.

“You barely rule the cul-de-sac, César,”

He throws me to the ground as thunder cracks overhead, wind whipping through his hair. Rain spatters onto the ground as he rages above me, screaming something I can’t hear over the gathering storm. I’m shaking with fear.

I scramble backward from him, trying to find the board on the ground that I’d seen earlier.

Bits of gravel and twigs fly through the air, smashing into us and tearing at our skin. The wind howls now, louder than César’s yelling or my unintelligible, blubbery begging.

I know what comes next.

“Say your prayers, pendejo,” César looms over me.

My hands finally land on knotted wood, but the board is heavier than I expect it to be and I can’t get it up in time to stop César’s swinging baseball bat.

My scream is drowned out by the crashing of thunder as lightning strikes the swingset near us.

“You should’ve just run home, mijo. You should’ve just run home to Flick the traitor, let your lover protect you,” César sneers. He’s unhinged now, his hair wild with static, eyes wide as he swings his bat down on me.

“Say your prayers, puta,”

I pull my arms across my face, catching the swing of his bat against my forearms with a scream.

Hail has mixed into the rain, and it beats on me with César.

 The wind now threatens to blow him off of me, throwing dirt and hail into our faces.

My vision goes blurry as he drives his wooden bat into my chest once more, making me choke on a breath.

“Stop the storm,” César screams at me over the wind. Blood is dripping down his face, a piece of bark sticking out of his forehead as he fights to stay on top of me in the wind.

What started as a simple summer thunderstorm has turned into something close to a hurricane, my fear driving the wind to whip in circles around us.

“I can’t,” I choke out, struggling beneath César’s weight.

Lightning strikes again, and I can smell the smoke this time, feel the electricity beating through my heart. Sparks flick from my hands and I can see, for the first time, fear flood César’s face.

I might have the upper hand.

At least, I would if I could control it.

Pain surges through me as thunder roars above us.

César is scared.

I am scared.

“You could’ve been great,” He whispers, somehow audible below the storm.

“I’m sorry, mijo,”

He raises the bat high above his head, a look of regret crossing his face before he brings it charging down.