! - And suddenly, it's hard to breathe

[beandelphiki]

So I had quite the fun day yesterday.


I started off to work just a bit late, so I got to the train station just minutes after my train had gone by. Which happens to me a LOT. I fail completely at being 1-5 minutes early, rather than 1-5 minutes late. Or as the quote goes, the only way I know of catching a train is to miss the one before it. (No, I don't know who said that, unfortunately.)

It was raining, so I was juggling an umbrella and my juice (I never go anywhere without a bottle of liquid), so I wasn't able to eat my breakfast of two granola bars until I got to the station. (Anyone who also tends to be late probably knows the strategy of always having portable food on you as well, for those many occasions when you have to skip a proper meal). So that's what I was doing - chewing on a granola bar with my umbrella and backpack beside me on the bench - when these three guys walked out onto the platform and spotted me.

Alone. I just missed the train, right?

I'm not sure exactly how old they were. I would have put them somewhere between 18 and 21. They were obviously the sort of guys who delight in being assholes; I could tell because they were deliberately speaking too loudly, almost at yelling volume. I ignored them, pretending blandly not to notice them at all. That's the strategy I generally employ on public transit, and it generally seems to work.

One of them, a guy wearing a yellow shirt, walked into the open-end glass shelter I was sitting in while the other two walked behind me around the outside. I got the uneasy sense of being surrounded and cornered, and that feeling only intensified when one of the two on the outside pounded on the glass, hard, just by my head. I turned a little to glare at him.

The two of them walked around the corner, and lingered at the other entrance to the shelter while Yellow Shirt stood in the middle of it, loudly reading from a newspaper he'd plucked off the other bench. I thought idly that he sounded nearly illiterate.

One of the other two, a guy with an overly-large mouth, looked dangerously familiar. I had the sense that I'd seen him somewhere before, and carefully avoided him. He said, "Hit him with it!"

"Okay," and Yellow Shirt rolled up the paper he was holding, and smacked me upside the head with it, like he was chastising a dog. Big Mouth laughed.

I gave him a WTF? look. He went to hit me again, but I swiftly brought up my right arm to block him, saying, "What's your problem? Fuck off!" as I did.

Evidently annoyed that I had blocked his second swing (and possibly in some pain; I'd blocked him hard, and I heard wrist bones crunch when I did it), he grabbed onto my right arm to hold it out of the way, and went for a third swing at the left side of my head. I was still holding my bottle of juice in my left hand, but for some reason I didn't think once during this entire exchange to put it down, and the third smack landed.

I was pissed.

I don't recall exactly what I did, but breaking holds was one of the few things I actually practiced religiously the few years of my life that I took karate. (A futile attempt to learn to protect myself from my father. Who has a brown belt. Not even the few ways I know to break holds worked on him.) I believe I lifted my arm around and snapped it down against his thumb, standing up and stepping forward as I did so, which forced him to let go and back up.

Unfortunately, that's also a gesture of intended intimidation, of escalation.

Which, under the circumstances, was a rather stupid thing to do.

"Oh," he said with arch surprise. "Whacha gonna do, then? Hit me? Punch me?"

I glared back, but was wordless. I hadn't intended to do anything, although hitting him had crossed my mind. I just wanted him to leave me alone.

"Okay, then," he continued. He grabbed again for my arm, fast, and got it, just like he'd hit me the first time. I didn't see it coming.

I saw the next part coming, and tried to back up, but it was a bit late at that point. He lifted my right arm above my head, pulled his fist back, and then slammed me - hard, but with an air that was almost casual - in the ribs with a lowly-aimed uppercut.

Power punch, I noted as I folded, although it likely lost a bit of oomph because he hadn't aimed for my head. Not that knowing that made it hurt much less.

It's probably impossible to describe the sensations the impact caused. Because the bench was behind me, I sat down on it as I collapsed, and ended up curled forward on it holding my midsection, unable to quite believe that what had just happened had really happened. It's been years since I've been punched with quite that level of intent to inflict damage, and I was a kid then. Ten-year-olds just don't punch that hard. Hell, even my jackass dad pulled his punches some.

I think I now know just how kind my father was in comparison, in fact. I knew he was pulling his punches some - I could feel it - but he never came so close to BREAKING MY DAMN RIBS.

I looked up at Yellow Shirt, who was watching me almost dispassionately. I'm not sure what emotion was on his face though, and I wasn't in a clear enough state to mind-read, metaphorically speaking.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I demanded, the air escaping from the deflating words as from a punctured balloon.

"I don't know," he replied, and I could almost believe he was totally serious. Now I thought I heard the emotion: the tiniest thread of regret woven into the background of his conscious awareness. I felt slightly better knowing that he was unlikely to hit me again if I did nothing unpredictable. "My mother asks me that all the time." He turned a faint grin to the two at the shelter entrance.

Big Mouth and Buddy #2 (who remained mostly silent in the background throughout) were laughing. Yellow Shirt stepped over to join them, and they all turned and waved up at the black bubble of the security camera, so incognito against the brick pillar supporting the ceiling of the shelter. "HI!" Yellow Shirt hollered, waving. "We're going to go rob Safeway now!" They all burst out laughing.

"No, seriously," Big Mouth said, nearly doubled over. "That was fucking hilarious, but why'd you punch him? He was just...and you punched him!" Laughing harder.

"I'm bisexual," Yellow Shirt said, turning back in my direction to indicate this show was for me. "I saw you, and...I was attracted to you."

Numerous remarks leapt to my lips - But honey, we don't have a safeword! - but I was still gasping in winded pain and shock, and didn't get any of them organized in my mouth. Probably a good thing.

"I couldn't handle that," Yellow Shirt continued, "so I was angry. And I had to hit you."

The Gay Panic defense is now a joke amongst violent sociopaths. Great.

"But seriously," Yellow Shirt turned back to his posse, "I was angry, and I wanted to punch someone. So now I did. I feel better now, you know? I just had to get that out. Had to hit some fucker."

"You're fucking crazy," Big Mouth said, and Buddy #2 chimed in with his mirthful agreement, while Yellow Shirt confessed to this sin; yes, yes, he was a crazy mofo. "But you wouldn't ever do that to me, right?"

"No!" Yellow Shirt seemed appalled by the very idea. "Dude no, you know I'd never do that to you!" He raised his arms. Big Mouth did as well, and they flung their arms around each other in a loving embrace, rocking from side to side.

I stared from the bench, feeling my chest and right shoulder start up a warning burn that I recognized from when my left lung threatens to collapse. WTF?

After that, they largely seemed to loose interest in me, standing around and having a loud conversation that seemed to focus mainly on how degenerate they were; who was sleeping with that twelve-year-old's mom, etc. Some sort of competition to see who most qualified for a DSM diagnosis of antisocial.

I ignored the grandstanding, given that it probably was as much for my benefit as anything else. I focused on my thumb, where a section of skin was swelling with blood just at the edge of my thumbnail. It looked like I'd hit myself with a hammer. I'm not sure how that happened, but it must have been when Yellow Shirt lifted my arm.

My ears perked up on, "...wanna jack his shit," from Big Mouth.

"Don't jack his shit!" was Yellow Shirt, giggling at Big Mouth's audacity. "I just punched him. Don't jack his shit!"

"But he has an umbrella. I want an umbrella!" Big Mouth approached me, smiling too wide. "Hey, can I have your umbrella?"

"No." I was on guard. Yellow Shirt might have the most trouble with impulse control, but something told me that this one was actually the most dangerous.

"You can't jack his umbrella!" Yellow Shirt said, in a tone that clearly read, This is off-limits, and I mean it now. "You don't even use umbrellas. And we're not gonna be outside long." He caught Big Mouth's arm, and pulled him back.

My white knight.

They kept talking. I focused off in the distance, and concentrated on image macros I remembered from my last spin through ihasalupus. THIS SOUNDS LIKE SRS BZNS. Then:

"...bored. Hit him again, break his fucking glasses."

Oh lord. Universe, DO SOMETHING. For the sake of my new specs, if nothing else. They didn't do anything to these guys, either.

I looked at the HELP box, a useless hundred feet down the platform. If I gathered my stuff and went for it, what might happen then? I stayed where I was.

And then finally, finally, the universe sent a train. Going in the opposite direction, no less, which they got on. I couldn't have asked for more. (Well, other than not being hit at all, of course.)

I went to work. Moving pretty slow, so I was even later than I might otherwise have been, having missed my train. Boss Lady was sitting at her desk in the back of the store when I walked in, so she was there to greet me.

"Hi," she said, seeming surprisingly unbothered my usual lack of punctuality. She looked a bit closer. "Are you sick?"

I shook my head no.

"Are you okay?"

I burst into tears. Kickass response, I know, but can I help it if my body produces more prolactin than a biologically male one?

End result was the Boss Lady angrily calling Calgary Transit to report the incident. I didn't particularly want her to, since, if I've seen Big Mouth before, I might again. And I don't think I want to see him after he or his buddy have been charged with assault on my behalf. But it's not like I could stop her.

Transit lady on the phone said that the cops will be reviewing their security tapes, since the dumbasses waved straight at the camera. And also, "Next time, push the HELP button! Police and transit security will be there momentarily."

I know from past experience watching that people who push the HELP button can expect a good 5-10 minute wait for the cops OR the totally useless security officers who make their living harassing drunks and little old ladies who don't have/lost their ticket. But THANKS anyway, Tips.

After THAT, Boss Lady invited me out to a movie with her and her daughter (who also works at the store) after work. (She felt very guilty, I think.) I was very reluctant to agree to go, since I felt like I was going to fall down and fall unconscious (if not necessarily faint) much of the morning, and I figured I'd just want to go home and go to sleep. Or possibly the hospital.

But I got my second wind, and BOY am I glad I went to this movie. We saw Stardust and it was UNBELIEVABLY COOL. If you get a chance to see it, DO SO.

And my boss also bought me a HUUUGE bag of popcorn and a HUUUGE orange pop, which I think was also partially thanks because we had our busiest Sunday EVER that day, and Boss's Daughter and I made $867 worth of food at lunch hour on rail. Yay.

So that was a GREAT end to a day that started off really shitty.

I don't have much of a bruise yet - just a few broken capillaries visible - but Mom warned me that ribs DO bruise nicely, so I should have a technicolor dreamcoat eventually. And holy crap were my ribs ever sore last night. I went to sleep with the heating pad, which I think helped...but it still hurts to cough or sneeze. Not great when you have asthma and allergies.

And the bleeding on my thumb...I was trying to decide if I should try to pop it or what, but it's draining now, so I won't. (Draining where, I wonder? Something to look up!)


Exciting BRUISE UPDATES to follow! I hope it's pretty big and detailed, you guys. That would be awesome.

(Also, an exclamation point randomly appeared in the subject heading as I was typing. I have no idea why, but I figured I'd leave it.)

Comments

[griffen.livejournal.com]

May all three of those assholes (including Mr. so-called White Knight) develop penile atrophy and testicular failure immediately. Failing that, may they all wind up in jail with cellmates named Bertha.

I'm so sorry this happened to you, man.