~This is my return story after several months of absence. I changed my pen name as well. I wrote Sviterzhalden Boarding School and Spinning Through Life, for those of you who have read those (So you might remember me, if not thats fine too). Hope you enjoy this story. This is one of the rare times I have wrote something in the first person. It gives me a challenge to learn something new.~

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“Your strumming that all wrong you know,” I said to my foster brother as I sat staring at my empty dinner plate. My foster brother sat on the couch just feet from the table attempting to play his guitar. He has been taking lessons once a week for two months and he already thinks he’s hot stuff, and I have to admit, he couldn’t be any worse.

Jason rolled his eyes. “Oh, so now you’re the almighty master at playing the guitar?” his snide remark bugged me. I just shrugged.

“You told me to help you if you ever were playing wrong,” I didn’t say I was a whole hell of a lot better at it than he was. I’ve only been playing for two years. My foster mother sat across the table from me glaring at me. She never seems to like me. The glare she threw at me was just more glue to keep my mouth shut. The small three bedroom house made everything seem close. The entire first floor was one open room, except for the bathroom, and the living room couch was literally within an arms reach of the dining room table. We just finished a dinner of beef and noodles and gravy. Well they finished it. I don’t eat meat. The fact that the people I sit and watch eat so obviously eating the carcass of some poor animal is enough to make me gag. The table was still dirty as it was my turn to clean up and I hadn’t even gotten up yet. I was about to get up and clear away the rest of the dishes and wash the table when Jason opened his mouth, yet again.

“Oh my god, that is all you do, lecture me all day long,” the thirteen year old said, over dramatizing the whole thing. I was pretty stressed from working extra hours lately to help the family stay afloat, my foster father left the family a few years ago, as well as finishing up my senior year at school, and other things. I was starting to lose my grasp on my temper.

“I was not lecturing you, I was just pointing out-“

“Shut up Mike, just shut up. You seem to think you’re the father here, but news flash BOY, your not,” my foster mother shouted. I leaned back in my chair, away from the tirade of words flooding out of her mouth.

“I’m sorry, I’m not acting like his father, I was just doing what he asked-“I tried to say, but never finished.

“I told you to shut the hell up,” she yelled. “I am the adult here and I told you to shut the hell up.” My fine grasp at keeping calm slipped away. I can remember all too clearly my foster mother berating me because at 18 I wasn’t acting enough of an adult and that I need to grow up.

“No, I will not shut up nor will you make me. As for being the only adult here, I can easily disagree and do not tell me to shut up.” Her face turned a deep red, her anger flooding her face. She was only a small part Irish, but I do not think anyone would survive her if she was pure Irish, her temper flared faster than fire on dry kindle.

“I will not hear this from you, you go to your fucking room right now child, right now!” she shouted the last few words loud enough I looked over to see if the neighbors were outside. My anger snapped and my lips seemed to take on a strong courage, a courage only felt in the face of great adversity. I stood up from my spot.

“No, woman,” I insulted her, as I was beyond keeping the situation calm, “You will hear me and I will not go to my room. I do not have to listen to your nattering nor do I feel so inclined to hear more of what you have to say.”

I took a deep breath as the door slammed behind me. I wish I regretted being thrown out of the house, without so much as an extra stitch of clothing, but in truth I welcomed it. I suddenly took on a deeper appreciation for the warmer spring weather. All I had on were jeans, a t-shirt, and a light gray hoody. All I had on me besides my clothes were a yellow wrist band, a watch, and my wallet, which had no money in it and my cell phone. I just started walking. I turned right at the sidewalk and headed down the street. I walked and walked, turning here and there, till I found myself walking alongside one of the more busy roads in the area. I had no idea what to do. I kept replaying the whole argument in my head. A person would think I would regret speaking to my foster mother like that, but I took pleasure in standing up to a woman who had been a tyrant to me for many years.

A car horn blared as a white four door car drove past me. There were several teenager guys hanging out the front and back passenger windows. They yelled different insults, things about being a fucking homosexual, or a parasite to the human race, and the ever popular faggot.

Even after years of hearing those insults flung at me it still hurt. I watched the way I walked and grimaced. If I didnt think about it consciously my stride would fall into its normal rhythm, which was very feminine. It wasn’t as if I were ashamed that I was gay, it was more or less that the people around here didn’t understand and were usually not very accepting of it. My foster mother is a good example. Ever since I told her three years ago that I was gay she has gone out of her way to insult me. I eventually got used to it.

I continued walking, having no where to go, and as I passed the park and the library I decided to go back and go walk around at the park. I really loved this park. As I walked around the large, expansive park I could hear little kids screaming and laughing and having a good time on the playground. The kids play area was fenced in with a few openings, but the fence railing was designed and painted to look like a dragon, with the dragon’s head coming to rest on the top of one of the playground towers.

I tend to walk around the lower park, which is filled with pathways and trees. A small creek trickled softly through the center of the park, little arched bridges reaching across at regular intervals every so often. I walked and walked, humming a piano piece I had started writing the other day. I heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel path behind me, and fairly close. I turned around just in time to get punched in the face. Blood trickled down my face, my nose throbbed in pain. I looked up from my bloody hand. There were five guys standing there and I recognized two of them from the little white car earlier. The teenagers fanned out in a circle around me.

“What’s the matter little faggot, don’t know how to fight?” the guy who punched my face said. He sneered and then laughed in my face.

“I think our little fairy is afraid of getting a little dirty,” one of his buddies jeered, bringing a bout of laughter to all his friends. I felt something hit me in the back and I fell to my knees. More laughter filled my ears. I felt a couple of kicks hit me in the side as I kneeled there. I took a deep breath. It has been two years since I last had anything to do with my previous martial arts training. I tensed my muscles. I snapped my legs straight, flinging myself up in the air. I snapped my right foot out and caught the first guy in the stomach. I could hear the whoosh of breath as I forced the air from his lungs. The second my foot hit the dirt I closed the gap and threw a punch at his face. I heard the crack of cartilage breaking as I hit his nose. I also heard, and felt, the popping as I broke my knuckles. I forced the pain aside. One of the guys behind me charged in at me at the moment I had hit the first guy. I pivoted around and stepped to his left and pushed him into the teen that was to the first guys left. They both fell into the brush on the side of the path. It would take them a moment to clear themselves. The last two were a little more wary.

They stood a little apart from each other. One stood to my left and the other to my right. The element of surprise was gone. They circled me slowly, casting glances to each other, and to their partners extricating themselves from the bushes. I was just about to move on the guy to my right, the same guy who insulted my sense of cleanliness, when I heard a shout. Just down the path behind the other two came another boy running as hard as he could.

“Just great,” I muttered to myself. Another one, just what I needed. I was about to shout at him and invite him to play as well when he lowered his head and drove his shoulder into one of the two standing guys, knocking him from his feet. The last guy took off running. The newcomer looked at me and looked to the two guys getting clear from the brush and the guy whose nose I broke. A smile danced across his face as his brown eyes sparkling.

“Time to get out of here, let’s go,” he said to me and gave me a push in the opposite direction away from the jumpers. I took off running down the gravely path. The boy next to me laughed as we ran. “I’m Chester,” he said between breaths as we ran and he stuck his hand out to me. I shook my head in disbelief.

“Mike,” I replied, shaking his hand as we both sprinted through the park.

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~And thats the first chapter. Please review and let me know what you think. Cookies to those who leave a review. I suppose if you don't review you can have some carrots instead :-D. Thanks a bunch!~