Six in the morning. Monday. I hate Mondays. Not as though they were any better than Saturday or Sunday, Tuesday or Wednesday, or even Friday. Sounds strange, right? Hating every day of the week, weekends included? I hate the weekends most of all, actually. However, every Monday through Friday, my dad never forgets to give me that goodbye punch of his before I go to school. Ever since my mom died, he’s made sure to pummel me every chance he gets. It didn’t help that he was a no-good drunk, either.
Backpack slung over one shoulder, I snuck down the hall of my small, cold house. A nude magazine laid open on the floor. I bent over and picked it up, smirking as I quickly flipped through the pages. I tucked it under one arm and peered around the corner. My dad was seated lazily in a cheap, torn lawn chair he had dragged into the living room. He sipped on a beer and stared out the window with a dumb, vacant expression.
The door was maybe ten feet away, and I was hoping to leave the house without being hit by my dad for once. Of course, no one ever gets what they want. As I stepped forward, I accidentally kicked a beer can against the wall with my red Chuck Taylor’s. A loud clunk sounded as the can made contact with the wall. My eyes widened and I looked up into the living room, praying that my dad was too drunk to pay attention. He usually got drunk first thing in the morning. My heart pounded like a nine-pound hammer when I saw him twisted around in his chair looking right at me, and it pounded even harder when he stood up. His beer fell from his grasp and hit the floor, it’s contents spilling out onto the carpet. He advanced towards me and I rushed to the door. I grasped at the doorknob, but before I could rip the door open, I was jerked back by my shirt. I flew back onto the carpet, my dad towering over me.
"You think you’re leaving without saying goodbye?" he hissed mockingly. I whimpered as his fist collided with my cheek. "Get outta here," he growled. I stumbled to my feet and cradled the side of my face, running out the door and into the dim sunlight.
My yard was nothing special, neither was my house. It was more like a small box on top of a dead patch of grass, littered with empty beer cans and several other various objects. In fact, it wasn’t much different from the other houses that created the block. My house was probably the smallest and worst-looking on the block, though, with it’s caved in roof and the door beginning to dangle off it’s hinges. The windows didn’t have screens, either. They were like empty squares cut into the walls of my house instead of windows.
I ran through the brown grass, blades of it crunching beneath my feet, and grabbed my bike that was lying on the side of the road. I hopped onto it and pedaled down the street. The scenery of unkempt houses and filth littered lawns flew by as I pedaled faster. Finally, I reached the Hell Hole -- otherwise known as school. I leapt off my bike and left it lying in the middle of the sidewalk. The kids would be too afraid to take it. They’d be too afraid that "Moody’d beat me up".
I strode into the building, feeling a sudden rush of pride and authority sweep over me. As I walked down the hall, several people backed out of my way and I grinned. At least here everyone was afraid of me.
I stopped walking when one of my friends, well, colleagues stepped in front of me. "Nice lookin’ bruise you got there, Moody," he said, looking at my cheek. "What happened?"
"What?" I lifted a hand to my cheek and put pressure on the spot where my dad slugged me. A sharp pain spread in my cheek underneath my fingertips. "Oh,” I said, pausing, "I- I got into a fight."
"Did you win?"
"What do you think," I snapped at him.
"Whatever," he said, shrugging. I continued walking and the kid disappeared in the crowd of people. When I found the bathroom, I walked inside. The room looked vacant. I rushed over to the mirror and examined my cheek. A dark purple bruise had been painted on my right cheek just above my chin. Given my reputation, it wouldn’t be so hard to pass the bruise off as the result of a fight.
The loud sucking sound of a toilet being flushed came from a stall behind me and I straightened up. The back of an extremely tall boy’s head poked up above the stall door. Linderman. I leaned against the counter as Linderman exited the stall and stepped up to the sink furthest away from me. I pushed myself up and strolled over to him, my hands buried in my pockets and a smirk on my face. Linderman ignored me and continued washing his hands.
"Hi," I slowly hissed at him. He looked up at me, a dangerous glint in his eyes.
"Don’t screw with me today, Moody," Linderman growled.
"Why would I mess with you?" I said, an edge of sarcasm etched in my voice.
"Because you’re an asshole," Linderman said. I didn’t respond. "Where'd you get that bruise, Moody? Dad hit you again?" I was caught off guard, forced into silence from the impact of the question. Linderman couldn’t know that, could he? He must’ve just been trying to get a rise out of me.
After a moments hesitation, I answered. "Got it in a fight. Won it, too."
"Naturally," Linderman said sarcastically, rolling his eyes. He dried his hands off on his jeans and pushed past me to leave the bathroom. When the door closed, I turned around and continued examining my bruise in the mirror. I frowned slightly at the size of it. Gladly, even the teachers were aware of my violent reputation, so questions were rarely asked about what state I was in when I arrived at school. Due to the conditions at home, my reputation was all I had, and I was determined to keep it the way it was. Being the tough guy gave me a feeling of authority because I knew that there was at least one place where I knew I could boss people around, instead of being pushed around by a drunken bastard. 
When I stepped out of the bathroom the halls were empty except for a puny Freshman running to class. When he ran past me, I reached forward and grabbed the back of his shirt, dragging him into the bathroom. I pushed him against the wall. He was looking around frantically, quivering slightly. Clearly he was scared.
"You got my money?" I snarled at him. I couldn’t remember if this kid was part of the majority of students who owed me a dollar per day. There were so many students who paid me for my "protective services" that I lost track of them all. Evidently, I picked up the right kid because the boy shakily reached into his pocket and pulled out a few coins, stuttering, "I-I only have si-sixty ce-cents." I snatched the coins from the boys grasp and flipped them over in my palm.
"You’re lucky, kid," I hissed, looking up at the kid trembling in my grasp, "because I’m feeling generous today." The bell rang loudly and I shoved the coins in my pocket. "Come up short again and you may not be so lucky." I released my hold on the kid’s shirt and he scurried out the door. Hands shoved in my pockets, I strolled out of the bathroom and down the hall to my English class.
Casually, I walked into the room. Ms. Jump was attempting to settle the riled class down, a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird balanced in her hand. Unnoticed by Ms. Jump, I slipped into the jumbled crowd of students.
"Class," Ms. Jump hollered, clearly impatient now, "settle down. Take your seats and get out your books." The chatter began to die as the kids sat down. Only one kid had already been seated, his book laid out in front of him.  Peache, of course.  I silently laughed at him.
I looked around the classroom quickly. I saw Linderman seated by that annoying nerd kid that hung around with Peache. There was no chance I'd be bothered trying to remember his name. Honestly, I was surprised to see Linderman. He hadn't been to class on time in living memory. There's a first for everything, I guess.
Ms. Jump began to read the book in her hand. I guess one of the characters, Attercust, or something I've never heard of before was defending some black man for raping someone. I hadn't bothered reading the book or even listening to Ms. Jump read. To Kill a Mockingbird sounded even more boring and dull than any other book on the face of this planet. I even lost the copy of the book they gave me.
Bored, I glared at Peache momentarily, but soon started staring off into space. Contrary to popular belief, I didn't hate Peache. No, not hate, just envy. He had everything. Money, a fancy hotel, he even had friends. All I had was a drunk and abusive father, a bike, and more enemies than I could count.
"Mr. Moody." I snapped out of my thoughts and looked up. Ms. Jump was looking at me, her hand rested on her hip. "Mr. Moody, why don't you tell us something. Why did Reverend Sykes ask for Jem to take Scout and Dill home?" I stared at her blankly for a moment, then said, "Because... They're talkin' about sex?" I had picked up a few things for Ms. Jump’s readings, but not enough to really understand what was going on. A few laughs came from around the room and I proudly smiled. Ms. Jump froze, then cracked a grin.
"In general, yes. The court is discussing the charges against Tom Robinson for allegedly raping Mayella Ewell. So, yes, they are talking about sex." Ms. Jump didn't mind cussing or talking about sex during class, which was fine by me. "On other terms, where is your book?" She was also stern, which I didn't like.
"Lost it," I said coolly. Ms. Jump frowned.
"Your disadvantage, then." I shrugged in response. Ms. Jump looked back down at her book and continued reading.
An hour of blankly staring off into space later, the bell rang and we were dismissed to attend our other classes. Math, Science, you know, boring things. Begrudgingly, I managed to show up to all of them. Not like I paid attention, though. The teachers knew it, too, judging by my test scores. Eventually, after several boring, uneventful classes, the final bell rang and we were able to go home.
Not to my surprise, my bike was still lying in the middle of the sidewalk. I picked it up and rolled it several feet ahead, then hopped on it and glided down the sidewalk. I thought about staying there, going off somewhere with some people to avoid going home, but I just didn't feel social today, so I just kept rolling down the road. My dad would probably be drunk and dead to the world when I got home, so I don't think he'd be much of a threat. Pedaling, I finally reached the the little rotten bunch of houses that was my so-called "neighborhood" and stopped in front of the old wooden box that I lived in. Like I did every day when I came home, I hopped off my bike and left it lying abandoned by the side of the road. Suddenly, the previous feelings of superiority vanished, replaced with a sickening pang in my gut and a gripping fear. I knew my dad was inside, though I doubted he was awake. Unemployed and a drunk, he could barely hold a job for more than three weeks. He never left the house, either. My dad was too lazy to get out of that lawn chair in the living room to do anything more than get another beer and beat me.
I was curious, though. The sick feeling I felt in my gut had never happened before. I knew I was following my worst instinct, but I opened the door anyway. The breaking hinges screamed in protest. I tiptoed across the threshold, glancing into the living room. As I expected, my dad was sprawled out on the lawn chair. Whether he was asleep or passed out, I couldn't tell. The beer can my dad had dropped this morning was still lying on the floor, a dark pool beneath it staining the carpet. A few other cans had been left on the floor over the day, as well. The most recent one was lying inches from my dad's fingers, creating another stain on the carpet.
I shook my head and walked down the hall to my closet-sized room, quietly shutting the door. My room was small and quiet. Whenever I was in it, I felt claustrophobic due to how close the walls were. Regardless of how sick it made me, I preferred staying in my room than going out and facing my dad. It was at the end of the hall on the left, so since my dad practically lived in that chair, I usually went unnoticed. Well, unnoticed until he was hacked off at something and needed a punching bag. For the next few hours, I sat there on the sheet tied to hooks on the wall that provided as a bed and looked through the nude magazine I had picked up that morning.
"Kid," a loud, booming voice yelled, making me jump and drop the magazine. Looks like dad's up, I thought. Crashing footsteps pounded down the hall, ceasing by my door. I winced when my door was kicked open, revealing my dad's contorted, seething face. As he advanced into my room, I retreated back a little. "Kid, where the hell's all my beer?" he growled, pointing an accusing finger at me.
"You probably drank it all, you damn drunk," I snapped. That was a mistake.  My dad belted me across the face.
"Damn smartass!" he screeched. "Tell me where my beer is or I swear I'll beat your sorry ass so hard you won't be able to see or walk for a week.”  I could faintly hear a banging coming from the front door.  Bang bang bang.
"I told you where your f*ing beer is," I spat. "You drank it all! Now you need to buy more, but you went and f*ed yourself over and no one'll hire and pay a drunk bastard like you!" Another fist smashed it's way into my jaw.  Bang, bang, bang.  Perhaps someone was at the door. 
"Don't you talk to me like that," he snapped, wrapping his fist into my shirt and dragging me to my feet. His face was inches from mine, his hot, putrid breath blowing into my face. I could feel my heart rate increasing and I began to tremble. After thrusting a hard fist into my abdomen, he tossed me down onto the floor.  I could still hear the banging, and it kept getting louder.  Bang, bang, bang.  Continuous jeers and obscenities spewed from his mouth as he kicked me over and over again. In my gut, my legs, arms, crotch. One even landed on my face. I spit blood that was oozing out of a cut on my lip at my dad. Another kick in the face and blood splattered onto the floor from my nose. With the wall as a support, I stood up. I had always been able to hold my own in fights with other kids, so why couldn't I do it with this fat, lazy oaf? This was a fight I was determined to win. My head felt dizzy, though, and my vision blurred, but I was still able to swing a hard punch into my dad's gut. I heard a thud and a quiet gasp of pain as my fist made contact with his oversized gut. My vision returned, but was obscured again as my dad smacked me against the wall. I stood up again, teetering slightly, then was pushed back down.
"Stay down, you worthless sack of s***," my dad spat. Somehow I knew that I wasn't going to leave this fight without severe injuries -- or worse. My dad dragged me up by my shirt and pressed me against the wall. "You're pointless," he breathed quietly.  I hadn’t hear the banging again, so maybe whoever was at the door went away.
I was breathing heavily now from pain and fear. There had to be something I could do to prevent something out-of-hand happening. I couldn't beat this brute off me, and I couldn't scream for help. That would just make matters worse. Then I remembered I had a switchblade in my back pocket. Maybe I could stab him just enough to maim him, but not kill him. A wounded enemy is better than a drunk, angry one in my opinion. However, he would be an angry, drunk, and wounded enemy. That's not exactly ideal, but it's better than getting beat.
Before the blundering drunk could comprehend what was going on, I tore the switch from my pocket and pressed it against his wrist. A flash of silver glinted in the dim light as I flipped the blade against his skin. He dropped me as the sharp edge slit through his wrist. My dad backed up a few steps clutching his arm, blood steadily dripping from the incision I made in his wrist. He growled, "You son of a b****," and I brandished the switchblade. He advanced at me, and before I could react he shoved me against the wall. I heard a sickening crack and a sharp pain flew through my skull.  My dad quickly retreated from the room holding his arm and paused at the doorway, looking into the hall.
“What’s going on?” said a voice.  It was recognized that voice, deep and menacing, hardened.  I couldn’t remember who it was, though.  I rolled over a bit, clutching my head and groaning.
“Who the hell are you?” my dad growled.  “Why’re ya in my house?”
“I asked you what was going on,” the hard voice asked again.
“None of your damn business,” my dad hissed angrily.  “Get outta my house before I make ya.”
“Moody?”  Weakly, I looked up, seeing who had come into the house.  My eyes widened when I saw Linderman staring through my doorway.  My dad grabbed him by his jacket and started dragging him away.  Linderman twisted around and kneed my dad in the gut, making him double over and gasp.  He slugged him several times in the gut as well, then gave my dad a hard punch in the face, knocking him out.  Linderman tossed my dad’s unconscious body off of him and rushed over to me.  “You okay?  What happened?”  I tried to tell him that my dad beat me through my heavily bleeding nose and my swollen lips, but it came out in a whimper that sounded like a kicked dog.
“Never mind,” Linderman sighed, “I think I have a pretty good idea what happened.”  He stood up and curtly looked around my small room.  “Damn, I had a feeling you had it bad.”  I looked up and him towering above me through squinted eyes, closing them soon after due to the throbbing in my head. 
“Moody?”
“What?” I said thickly.
“We gotta get you outta here.  Your old man ain’t gonna be out for long, and as much as I hate you, I don’t want you living like this.”  I opened my eyes again and looked up at Linderman.  He took a step out of the room and peered down at my dad, who I assumed was still unconscious.  Slowly, I pushed myself up and leaned against the wall and held my head.  Blood dripped from my nose and onto my shirt and I could barely open my eyes to anything more than slits.
“Where’s some clothes?” Linderman asked, looking around the room.  I pointed to a small, wrinkled pile on the other side of the room and Linderman picked them up, tossing them over his arm. 
“Why are you here?” I asked slowly.
“I knew somethin’ was up with your family from the moment I met you, and when you came to school with that bruise on your face I could tell you were lying about getting it in a fight,” he said while he lifted me up by the arm.  My head started pounding and I gasped.  “I followed you home in case something happened.  Looks like something did.” 
Linderman hoisted me up by the elbow a little too quickly, making my head spin.  He let me go and I took a minute to regain my balance and to let my eyes focus.  The clothes were thrust harshly into my arms.  I almost dropped them as Linderman drug me out of my closet by the upper arm.
“Where are we goin?” I asked stupidly.  My eyes were still shut due to the pain in my head, and the speed that Linderman was dragging me at wasn’t helping any.  Linderman stopped abruptly and I stumbled a bit.
“Moody” - he kept a firm grip on my arm so I wouldn’t fall - “do you want to stay here?”
“Hell no,” I said, straightening myself.  I opened my eyes a little and looked at Linderman.  He bit his lip and looked back at me.  For a moment, i wondered why he was trying to help me.  We could both agree that we weren’t friends.  In fact, Linderman and I weren’t even on a first name basis.
Linderman suddenly continued to pull me by the arm, then dragged me outside and let me go.  I had been able to keep my eyes open since the throbbing in my head began to decrease.  Linderman must have noticed I was feeling better, because he told me to get on my bike.  He grabbed the heap of clothes in my arms and shoved them in his backpack, then swung it back over his shoulder.
“Okay, c’mon,” he said, hopping back on his bike.  Linderman was already pedaling down the road before I even got on mine.  I got on my bike and followed close behind him.

~ ~ ~

Linderman had led me to his house, and now we were both sitting in his bedroom.  He was sprawled out on his bed and I was sitting on the floor near the wall silently.  A few hours had passed since the fight with my dad, and my face had a blue-purple hue to it from the bruises dotted along my skin.
It felt weird to be in Linderman’s bedroom, let alone being in Linderman’s house.  He was a murderer, as well as a rapist, a molester - it's a long list.  But after what he had just done for me forced me to look at him differently.  Linderman didn’t have to get me away from my house and my dad.  I was actually surprised he hadn’t killed me . . . yet.  After all the taunting and grief I had given him over the years, you could see it flickering in his eyes that he wouldn’t mind kicking my head in.  Perhaps he wasn’t the monster that everyone said he was.
“Ricky,” I said.  His first name felt weird to say.  Ricky looked down at me on the floor.  There was that look again.  “What’s going to happen?”  It was a stupid question, but I was curious.  I couldn’t go home, and there was no way Ricky was going to let me live in his room.
“I can’t be sure, but I’m going to help you leave tomorrow morning,” Ricky said simply.
Leave?  I had no where to go, and I was not living on the streets.
“Where would I go?”
Ricky paused a moment before answering.  “Do you have any family to stay with?”
Now it was my turn to pause.  I remembered where one of my relatives lived, and that wasn’t too far from here.
“I have an aunt who lives a couple miles out of town,” I answered.
“So you’ll go there.”  Ricky looked back at the ceiling.
Great.  Now all that’s left to do is wait for dawn.

~ ~ ~

I was woken by Ricky shaking my shoulder harshly.  He and I had gotten my clothes into a bag, and Ricky had snuck me some food and water for my trip.
Ricky and I were now standing a couple of meters from his house.  I was standing next to my bike, the bag of food and clothing slung over my shoulder.  Ricky was by my side.  It was a few minutes after dawn, so the sun peeking over the horizon painted the block a dim orange.
“I’ll tell everyone you moved away,” Ricky told me as he looked down the street, “which is truth enough.”
I nodded and followed his gaze down the street.  No one was out yet except Ricky and I.
Ricky punched my shoulder lightly, in an almost friendly way.  I suppressed a yelp since he hit me on a particularly nasty bruise, but I couldn’t help my eyes wincing in pain.  Ricky noticed and looked at me.
“You should get going before people start coming out,” Ricky said.  I nodded again and met Ricky’s gaze for a moment.  He gave me a small smile and I looked away so I could get on my bike. 
“Can I ask you to do something for me?” Ricky asked before I started down the street.
“Sure.”  I planted both feet firmly on the ground.
“When you get there, don’t be an ass,” he advised.
“No promises,” I said with a smirk, “but I’ll try.”
“Good enough, now go.”
I began to pedal down the road, looking over my shoulder at Ricky.
The hateful glint in his eyes was gone.