He enjoys bar fights. He likes a fistfight, has ever since he was a kid. Last year, in the Métro, he was sitting next to this skinny, puny black kid. When the doors opened, two other kids about the same age, but well built, came into the car and went for the kid, intending to take his money and adminster a savage beatdown. Two hulking brutes against this scrawny kid, Patrice had not even tried to make sense of it. He had grabbed them and punched them out. Slick job. That day, in the Métro, he had been the hero—his fellow commuters were happy to have a psychopath in their midst, no one was thinking he should be in group therapy. They were congratulating him. The whole car was ecstatic. When would he ever feel alive, feel happy, if he didn’t have his rage?
No comments:
Post a Comment