Page 23 of The Black Flamingo

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They don’t say why

we’re supposed to fight,

only that if we don’t hit each other

they will kick the shit out of us both.

“What’s it gonna be, choirboys?”

the bigger of the two says, with a hiss

at the end of “boys.”

Unlikely gladiators,

a crowd gathers, pushing us closer:

“Fight! Fight! Fight!”

A familiar chorus around here

but not one I’ve ever chosen to sing.

I think of running.

I think of taking a beating.

But suddenly I feel this force within me.

Fight or flight?

I grab Alistair’s hair with my left hand

and drag him around the circle two,

three times, then lift his head up

to see his long hair part to make way

for his pretty face and slap him hard

with my right hand, down to the ground.

The two bigger boys start shouting,

“Kick him! Kick him!”

His hair has fallen back

over his face now. He curls himself

into a ball. He looks so small,

like a chick just hatched from an egg.

I feel sick and ashamed. I want my mum.

“No!”I shout as I turn and

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