Trick or Treat

The hill was crisp, glass in tall bay windows shimmering in the cold, parked cars already dusted with condensation. The first winter wind cut, dry leaves scuttled, empty black sky above.

A few half-hearted pumpkin lanterns, Halloween had lost any threat.

The lads uphill: swaggering, hooded tops, dark clothes, costume masculinity.

Street gang fancy dress, he thought. So young, unsure.

Between garden fences and parked cars; the pavement a corridor. He passed the first group, looking ahead. Passing the second, a shoulder barge, a kick.

Half a lifetime ago he'd broken the surface tension of masculinity, nymph becoming dragonfly, free, suddenly light. Like weeds, kicks and punches wrapped around him, dragging him beneath again. Each blow was a question and statement, demanding reply.

Am I a man? At school, such things were an everyday experience. A stock exchange for violence, a free market.

Still walking, a heavy foot in the small of his back.

No words. Behind, confusion.

I became something else. I can't help them prove anything.

Despite fear, he felt untouchable, the violence a fever dream, only real at the corner of the eye.

He walked on.

The quickest way to leave a war is to lose it.