Maslos

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I saw a dog on patrol today.

It was an ugly, pitiful mutt. Full of as many fleas as snarling teeth, drool dripping off its maws and anger in its eyes. It was so angry. I wear no cross around my neck, but if the devil ever chose to walk the earth as a dog, I think that’s what it’d look like. Or maybe god. I dunno, if my kids were half as bad as the ones I knew, I’d be pretty pissed at them too, but I’m getting off topic.

This isn’t the first time I’ve seen that dog. Why, I reckon it damn near bit my ass once when I accidentally got too close. Not that I would’ve made a fine meal, but maybe it likes them crunchy. 

I don’t know its name. Hell, I didn’t even know if it had an owner but looking back, that was a stupid assumption to make. Someone had to slap a collar on it, someone had to hammer down the chain. That someone didn’t feed the dog. Food in your belly doesn’t let someone count the ribs you have. But did it matter? Hurt, is just as much a claim to possession, as care. A slap on the face leaves just as incriminating a mark as a kiss on the lips.

I would know.

My sister owns me after all. Sweet, spunky, Abby. I love her and she loves me, we care for each other, we’re all each other has. Sure, there’s dad but the couch he collapses on knows his embrace more than us, I feel. This doesn’t mean I hate him! No, I care for him too, but my sister’s fingerprints are more present than his. 

Howard owns me too. Brave, feisty, Howard. The world didn’t put together his body out of bricks, but they made up for it with grit. Teachers call him lazy, but I don’t believe that. Why else would he do the rotten work of taking care of me? He could find himself a better friend. One that isn’t a sweaty, scarred, acne-ridden flesh blanket draped over a bag of bad bones, but he doesn’t. 

And Heidi, gods, I could go on about her. She’s got a good heart, and I love it, how can I not? But I worry. Because sooner or later, that big, bleeding heart might run dry and the worst part is, it’ll have wasted itself on stone and shit that couldn’t give a damn. So of course, I care about her. If she dies, who’ll stop the next kid from deciding one more shitty day should finally be their last?

Ah, but the hands that feed me aren’t all there is to a dog. Can’t forget the collar after all!

The school.

The devil couldn’t turn the earth to hell, so he had to settle for this institution of misery and torment disguised as education. And wow, what a bonafide genius he was, for this trick of his to last long before I popped outta a womb and long after I meet him in person. 

If this school were like the anatomy dummy in the labs, I’d be a certified surgeon. With my eyes closed, I can map out the nervous system of hallways where bodies are shoved against locker doors, like signals bursting across synapses. Paperwork, red tape and money under the table to meticulously weave a suffocating epidermis. The skeleton of flagpoles adorned with flags and tight-whities. The walls that see so much, the concave holes in a skull for the eyeballs. I imagine the floors tingling the same way the arm does whenever the elbow is struck every time my body lands on it. A hollow, filthy body on hollow, dirty tiles. 

Then there’s the heart and blood, for how else would such a huge beast live if not for those? The heart could be found in Coach Green. Body built like an ox with the mind of a gun, all military sternness, efficiency and terror, so much terror anyone can taste it at the back of their throats. The heart that pumps like a drum, rattling my bones, tearing apart my eardrums and littering me with bullet holes. It’s always the small targets that are the most challenging and Coach Green was a man. Real men don’t shy away from a challenge. 

And then there’s the blood cells, dressed in green that reminded me of the helium warning label I once glimpsed. Green and mean, so very mean. Green like money, so very greedy. Every time they bruise my skin, I imagine peeling it off and offering it to them to take home and do with it as they please. Spit on it, stick it on a dummy or punching bag, nail it to your dartboard. Inflict whatever torture you wish, your sick pleasure without me having to pay the price in pain at last. 

Who am I kidding, that wouldn’t be enough. I could strip myself down to bone, and they’ll call me greedy for wanting to keep those.

But still, if I close my eyes, I can pretend this school is a baby, like the toy Abby once got but never truly cherished. And babies must be cared for, always. They must be loved, so they can live.

So, I love. I care. And I’m owned.

I’m owned by Bucky. Boyish, meek Bucky, the closest I have to a friend outside of Howard. I’ll always have his back, Ninja or not. But we’re both sheep and sheep don’t bite when someone in the flock gets dragged away. Still, he’s so soft while everyone else is sharp and painful, I can’t hate him for not being painful.

I’m owned by Julian and Stevens, the jokers. Clucking like headless chickens amongst the cackling hyenas. Jesters in a mad court, those two, juggling and dancing away from the swords of Damocles over their heads. I would find their stupidity amusing if they didn’t reek of cannabis and skunk. Then again, I suppose those are the safer alternatives to lobotomy.

I’m owned by Bash. Big, brutish Bash with big dreams, a big fish in a small pond convinced he can conquer the ocean. He’s a little stupid, but most boys are. Just look at me. I am the bone and he is the dog. When he sinks his teeth in, I’ll grit my own until I can find a safe place to snap myself into sharp, jagged pieces to make his gums bleed. 

I’m even owned by Coach Green. Authoritative, cruel Green, who makes cruelty seem like human instinct. He is the human hand. Bigger, meatier, stronger, with all 5 fingers that can take anything he wants from the world. Anything but the Ninja. The Ninja is my bone, one that I slip between my ribs instead of my teeth. One he’ll have to pry out of my corpse. I wonder how many bones he has. With a body as big as that and a heart short, he must have quite a storage. 

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

At the end of the day, I am a hero. I am the Ninja. And what’s a hero without compassion? So of course, I’ll love everyone. And that love will always be tender, deep and all encompassing, just like a bruise.