What happened to Isaac?

Warning before reading: second person/main attack perspective/attack by strangers/fighting scenes/slight bloody description

Skipping this chapter does not affect the reading of the main text.

""""""Deceleration zone""""""

BGM: "The Fight Song" Marilyn Manson

You don't know how it happened, you just know that you were a little drunk and the man came to provoke you, so you punched him, but the punch didn't reach his face.

He takes your fist, twists it backwards, pushes you back hard, and slams his knee into your stomach as you stagger to your feet.You fall to the ground, and the crowd stirs slightly for a while, then disperses and refuses to leave.It hurts so much that the back of your head hits the stool you smashed before falling to the ground; it hurts so much that acid water rushes up your throat in just one stroke.

And that man, that demon, didn't pursue the victory, just looked at you from the side like this, even put his hands in his pockets, his condescending gaze had no anger, no hatred, no mockery, nothing.He's waiting for you to stand up, or kick you again.

You got up and threw out your fist impatiently. He still put his hands in his pockets and kicked you on the side of your waist when you raised your arm——you threw yourself on the bar and knocked down three glasses , The sharp corner of the bar almost didn't break your Adam's apple.

He withdrew his hand again, waiting for you to stand up.

You think he's playing tricks on you, like a cat letting go of a mouse over and over again, but though you know it all, you'll catch it without a fight?Then it's not you.

You charge for the third time.It's a funny word, but you're literally jumping up and hitting his chest with your fist, almost smashing his stomach.He snorted and strangled your tense forearm, and you froze.He said, "Let it go." Of course you wouldn't listen to him, and he responded by stamping your heel on your thumb so hard that you let go, screaming, and he pulled back immediately. Smash your elbow on the back of your head, one hit!Twice!Three times!Until it hits you on the ground.

You would have had a chance to stand on the table, if there hadn't been so much spilled wine on it; if you hadn't been briefly stunned and then woken up by a slap.You'll get up, you'll fight back, but the truth is you're on your knees, drowning in broken chokes, and his foot is on your back.

"Trash," you heard his laughing voice, "you're so boring. Beg me for mercy, I'll let you go."

You say, get out!Then his kick on your back was as heavy as your exclamation point.

"It will kill people..." Someone murmured in a low voice.

It will kill, really, you don't doubt it.The toe of his shoe is cruising to the back of your neck, and if you apply a little force, you will be soaked in cold sweat and dare not move.The spine is fragile, you've heard it.You've seen it, you've heard it, it's like stepping on a dead branch.

"Admit defeat," you panted, humiliation and panic making your cheeks burn at the same time, "I admit defeat! Please..."

"Hmm." You heard a cat-like purr coming from his throat, you heard him laugh, but it didn't seem to be.After a few seconds, he pats the back of your head with the toe of his shoe, almost reassuringly, before pulling his foot away from you.He walked in front of you, you looked up at him, your Adam's apple rolled nervously, but he just said: "Let's go." Then he leaned over to open the cabinet, took out a new glass, asked for three-and-a-half whiskey, and mixed it with soda , add crushed ice, and put it on your head with compensation.

The liquid in the glass in his hand sets you on fire as he turns around to give some people high fives and laughing.You're delusional that your sweat, blood, and physical tears smell of alcohol.

He glances at you indifferently, and puts the empty glass on the table.

"knock."

The bottom of the cup tapped on the table and made a soft, contented sound.You realize your opportunity has come.

It all happens in an instant, you rush up and slam his head on the bar.You hear the sound of glass shattering, you hear a real scream from the crowd, and you hear a feeble grunt escape from his throat.

You thought he was dead, and before he started to panic about the murder, you saw him slowly raise his head, his face had nothing to do with handsomeness, the wound cut from the corner of his forehead to the corner of his eye, making him unable to open his left eye; Broken glass was still embedded on the cheekbone, and sticky blood beads escaped from the wound like reptiles.

He screams, and you no longer find him so scary.

You certainly don't just watch while he covers his left eye and tries to get the splinters out of the wound.You kicked him in the lower abdomen, and he shook the bar, didn't fight back quickly, just covered his eyes, curled up against the bar, blood spilled from between his fingers, and you heard hissing almost sobbing inhalation Voice.

Sneak attack is not good, but it doesn't matter, the situation is completely against you now.

You kick him to the ground, turn him over, ride him, and punch him in the face, once, twice, three times, like he's elbowing you on the back of the head, horrified. The dull sound of people.Blood splatters and arcs as you move.

You tried to press his eyeballs to the broken glass, while a half-horrified, half-threatening growl came out of his throat, and the blood and saliva gushing out from the corner of his mouth stained the lines on his lips.He struggles, his head trembles under your hands, and you can almost hear the creak of every joint in his neck rubbing against each other, twisting back in protest.His two hands grab your wrists, the nails are sharp, press against your veins, and cut the epidermis.

Someone attempted suicide by cutting a vein.

Most people commit suicide by cutting their veins.

You're not going to let him help you kill yourself.

A moment of hesitation made him seize the opportunity, pull your shoulders and push you hard to the side, get up and run away staggeringly.You get up, bump into him, throw him on the ground, and the first thing you do is smash his head on the ground.

"Boom!"

At first he yelled and resisted, but soon his voice became quieter.

"Boom!"

"Someone has to hold him..."

"It was too hard."

"Sir! Sir!" Someone grabbed your arm, "Stop beating!"

The waiter grabs your forearm, and you think of him strangling your forearm ten minutes ago, with his nails digging into the flesh.You jerked away from the waiter and turned your head stiffly. At that time, your expression was even more devilish than a devil.

The waiter shrank his neck in horror: "At least not in the store..."

So you lift his hair, lift his head, and you can't hear much moaning anymore.Your mind tells you that you could be in big trouble, but you've never felt more excited.You just lift his head, lift him, and drag him out of the bar and into the dark alley next to him.

You just drag him out and you're not quite sure what to do with him.In the dim ray of light, he doesn't look like there's much room for you to strike.The piece of broken glass that wasn't picked out in time was still on his face, and he looked like an old piece of clothing that had been cut into a rag.

"You're not bad." He said, raised his hand, and you immediately put on a defensive posture, but he just tremblingly touched his face, pulling out the shards of glass, some embedded so deeply, you could hear He sniffed heavily and his hands trembled.Accompanied by the sound of sticky wetness, blood gushed out from the wound one by one.The belly beneath his tattered clothes constricted with his breath, like a slight convulsion.

Although he didn't say it, you just knew he had thrown in the towel.Your whole body, the place where he was beaten and the place where he was not beaten are all aching, but you still grinned, took out a cigarette, put it in your mouth, and lit it: "Why did you come to provoke me?" What? I don't even know who you are. What the fuck are you doing?"

He was thrown on the ground by you, leaning against the stacked wooden boxes, his swollen eye sockets made it difficult for him to lift his eyes to look at you, but you still found that his irises were gray-green; even so, his There was still nothing in his eyes, no anger, no shame, no regrets, just a little pain—but that kind of pain seemed second-hand, empathized with difficulty from others, and did not belong to him.

"Maybe yes," he said, "well, you think so?"

You're taken aback, but you don't think you should be taken aback by a gay guy who can't beat you, "Never."

"Come on, maybe you'll like it if you try it."

...............

"What are you, Isaac?"

You ask while getting dressed.

He lay on the box for a while, and turned himself over: "What do you think?"

"You are not an ordinary man."

"That depends on what you think of as ordinary."

"...You speak fluently. It seems that your injury doesn't seem so serious?"

"illusion."

"Why did you provoke me?"

"Because I'm in a bad mood today."

"Bitch," you say.

Isaac raised his head, stared at you again with that emotionless eyes, and laughed out loud after a while.

You don't know how he got up, you don't know how he rushed towards you, how his fist landed on the bridge of your nose.He hits hard but doesn't show his anger, like everyone who fucked him deserves a punch.

You are in a coma, and you don't know that he spit on your face: "Bah! How dare you burn my ass with a cigarette butt."

Twenty minutes later, you were lifted from the ground in disheveled clothes, and you couldn’t explain why you were in this state. The day and a half in the hospital was the most embarrassing day and a half of your life, and everyone was talking about you.When you got home, you sent the compensation money to the tavern and never visited the whole neighborhood again.

Since then, you've seen many, many trench coats like the one Isaac was wearing that day, but you've never seen Isaac again.

**

When you're old, you've got Alzheimer's, you're in a wheelchair, and you're doing nothing for a long, long time, you start to have the opportunity to remember the past.

Although you don't even remember your son's name, you still remember that your son came out when you were thinking about the red-haired man in the alley.This is your eternal secret, but old people are like a leaky door. You often shout in fear but cannot control yourself: "Isaac."

Your son asks, what, Dad?

To be honest, you don't know.You don't even know if it's a dream your genitals made on their own, but the swollen bump he gave you on your head that day and the high fever that lasted for three days won't lie to you.

Every time your son heard this name, he couldn't figure it out until one day, he suddenly realized: "Are you talking about the son who was given by Abraham?"

You opened your mouth and didn't have time to say "no", which became one of the things you regret most in your later years.

From then on, you have an extra "Bible" at hand, although the name Isaac does not appear in the New Testament at all.You don’t know what your son is thinking until you die. Even if he thinks that you are suddenly blessed by the Lord and wants to read some books, now you can read a paragraph or two soberly, which is far less than he imagined.

So is Isaac the Isaac of the Bible?

"No, he's a demon," you say.If anything, one word is essential, "is a bitch."

It's a pity that no one can hear what you said clearly now, and no one has the patience to listen.You realize that your time is passing like this, that the doubts that have haunted you for half your life may be forgotten today, or tomorrow; or before they are forgotten, you stop breathing.

Do you regret fucking him while you're sober?

……

What exactly was the problem just now?Anyway, yes.Life is all about regret.

——Isaac in the Dark Alley END——

The author says:

The rest of the H part can be viewed at the top comment area of ​​my microblog @大0青年方霍.Don’t worry if you can’t read it, I will post the free full text txt on Weibo after it’s over