Read Online The Man Who Killed His Brother by Stephen R. Donaldson - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephen R. Donaldson
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where I could use it, but when you’re as big as I am, you get in the habit of thinking you don’t need a weapon. Anyway, I had good reason not to trust the way I handle a gun.
This time—for once—it turned out I’d done the right thing. The only reason the woman didn’t get hurt worse was that I got there so fast. The man had already torn off most of her clothes, and he had her on her back in the dirt. She fought like fury, but he was much too strong for her.
He should’ve heard me coming—I’m not exactly light on my feet—but he must’ve been too far gone. Holding her down, he sprawled himself between her legs and started to thrust at her.
I was moving too fast to land on him without hurting her, so instead I caught hold of the back of his shirt with both hands as I went past and used his weight to pivot me to a stop. I was ecstatic with rage—the pressure inside me was exploding. Frustration and dread and all the long pain of trying to fight my way off the stuff came to a head in a second, and I went happily crazy.
The man wasn’t small, but for all the good his size did him he might as well have been. My momentum lifted him bodily into the air, and as I pivoted I swung him around and slammed him against the wall of the building. When he bounced back at me, I saw he had a switchblade, but even that didn’t slow me down. I blocked it aside, grabbed him again, wheeled, and threw him face first into the other wall as if I were trying to demolish the building.
Before he could turn, bring his knife around, I got him. With a long swing that came all the way up from my shoes, I hit him in the small of the back, just on the left side of his spine.
A gasp of pain broke out of him. His knife skittered away into the dark somewhere. He spun around and flipped forward, fell on his face, then jerked onto his side, arching his back as if he were trying to get away from the pain. His legs went rigid, and he kept pushing with them, slowly skidding his body in a circle.
There was a high keening noise in my ears, like the sound of blood rushing through my head, and I had a terrible urge to haul off and kick him. I wanted to do it. I could already feel the jolt of my toe hitting his back. But I didn’t. He’d had enough.
Instead I turned away and went to see about the woman.
She huddled, sobbing, against one of the walls. She had her knees pulled up tight in front of her, and she clutched the remains of her clothes about her desperately, as if those scraps were all that was left of her. Her face was pressed
against her knees. She didn’t look up when I spoke to her.
I hunkered down in front of her. Not knowing what else to do, I put one hand on her arm.
She flinched away so violently that I had to draw back. But at least the movement made her lift her head. I saw she was Chicano. It’s hard to tell the age of young Chicano women—when they first stop being kids they look too old for their years, and later on they look too young—but I didn’t think she was more than seventeen. Not pretty, but beautiful. Either the bad light or the tears made her eyes look dark as bruises.
“Hush child,” I said to her gently in Spanish. “The harm is past. I am Señor Axbrewder. My name is known in many places. Are you injured?”
She didn’t say anything. But she made an effort and finally managed to swallow her sobs. In answer to my question, she shook her head.
The man on the ground behind me groaned.
Her eyes jumped fearfully toward him, but I said, “Do not fear. He is hurt, and will not harm you now.” This time when I touched her arm she looked back at me and didn’t flinch.
“That is well,” she said in English. Strength was starting to come back into her face. There was a dignity in her tone, perhaps in the way she spoke English, that touched me more than any amount of crying. “He is a pig, and I spit on him.”
I liked her English so much I switched to it myself. “We’ll do better than spit on
This time—for once—it turned out I’d done the right thing. The only reason the woman didn’t get hurt worse was that I got there so fast. The man had already torn off most of her clothes, and he had her on her back in the dirt. She fought like fury, but he was much too strong for her.
He should’ve heard me coming—I’m not exactly light on my feet—but he must’ve been too far gone. Holding her down, he sprawled himself between her legs and started to thrust at her.
I was moving too fast to land on him without hurting her, so instead I caught hold of the back of his shirt with both hands as I went past and used his weight to pivot me to a stop. I was ecstatic with rage—the pressure inside me was exploding. Frustration and dread and all the long pain of trying to fight my way off the stuff came to a head in a second, and I went happily crazy.
The man wasn’t small, but for all the good his size did him he might as well have been. My momentum lifted him bodily into the air, and as I pivoted I swung him around and slammed him against the wall of the building. When he bounced back at me, I saw he had a switchblade, but even that didn’t slow me down. I blocked it aside, grabbed him again, wheeled, and threw him face first into the other wall as if I were trying to demolish the building.
Before he could turn, bring his knife around, I got him. With a long swing that came all the way up from my shoes, I hit him in the small of the back, just on the left side of his spine.
A gasp of pain broke out of him. His knife skittered away into the dark somewhere. He spun around and flipped forward, fell on his face, then jerked onto his side, arching his back as if he were trying to get away from the pain. His legs went rigid, and he kept pushing with them, slowly skidding his body in a circle.
There was a high keening noise in my ears, like the sound of blood rushing through my head, and I had a terrible urge to haul off and kick him. I wanted to do it. I could already feel the jolt of my toe hitting his back. But I didn’t. He’d had enough.
Instead I turned away and went to see about the woman.
She huddled, sobbing, against one of the walls. She had her knees pulled up tight in front of her, and she clutched the remains of her clothes about her desperately, as if those scraps were all that was left of her. Her face was pressed
against her knees. She didn’t look up when I spoke to her.
I hunkered down in front of her. Not knowing what else to do, I put one hand on her arm.
She flinched away so violently that I had to draw back. But at least the movement made her lift her head. I saw she was Chicano. It’s hard to tell the age of young Chicano women—when they first stop being kids they look too old for their years, and later on they look too young—but I didn’t think she was more than seventeen. Not pretty, but beautiful. Either the bad light or the tears made her eyes look dark as bruises.
“Hush child,” I said to her gently in Spanish. “The harm is past. I am Señor Axbrewder. My name is known in many places. Are you injured?”
She didn’t say anything. But she made an effort and finally managed to swallow her sobs. In answer to my question, she shook her head.
The man on the ground behind me groaned.
Her eyes jumped fearfully toward him, but I said, “Do not fear. He is hurt, and will not harm you now.” This time when I touched her arm she looked back at me and didn’t flinch.
“That is well,” she said in English. Strength was starting to come back into her face. There was a dignity in her tone, perhaps in the way she spoke English, that touched me more than any amount of crying. “He is a pig, and I spit on him.”
I liked her English so much I switched to it myself. “We’ll do better than spit on
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