Chapter 21 #2
Autopilot takes over my bodily functions.
I walk over to him. I can feel my blood swelling thickly throughout my body, battering my ears into deafness.
My terror mounts with every step I take.
When I’m within spitting distance of my desk, I regard what James so desperately wanted me to see.
Covering every inch of my desk are rows of sticky notes.
My sticky notes. Written on each sticky note in giant block-capital letters is one word: ‘FAGGOT’.
“Well, what do you think?” James asks, animated.
When you’re Mrs Adams’s son, I suppose you can get away with whatever you want.
Fright has sealed my throat shut.
“Well? Answer me,” James demands when I don’t reply.
He slams his fist against my desk. I flinch.
James shuffles closer to me. I cower backwards.
When my back collides with the wall, I really start to panic.
My heart is beating a mile a minute. With a concrete wall behind me and James Adams’s domineering figure in front of me, there’s nowhere to escape to. I’m a sitting duck.
“I asked you a question, faggot,” James snaps at me.
“Please. I’m sorry for whatever I did to you, James. I am.”
James just spits at me.
With my hands shielding my face, I croak, “Why are you doing this to me?”
James looks me up and down, a disgusted look on his face. His eyes are narrowed, and his nose is crinkled.
He huffs. “Why am I doing this?”
“Yes,” I plead.
James stalls. He glances at the ceiling, like he’s searching for a reason. “It’s your kind,” he spits after a minute. “You disgust me. Every one of you.” James shivers, the thought of ‘my kind’ unsettling him.
He shouts, “You hear me? Your kind are disgusting.” Pebbles of his spit collide with my face, and the smell of his awful breath almost chokes me. “What are you?” he shouts.
Tears are rising in my eyes. My legs are wobbly with fright. I’m so scared. I feel frozen. Like I’m stuck. Cemented to the wall. My throat closes.
James screams again when I don’t reply. “What are you?”
I look to the side, mumbling, “Disgusting.”
“What?” James shouts. This time his shout is so loud that my ears ache.
I catch a glimpse of my reflection in Melissa’s computer monitor. I hate what I see. I’m pressed against the wall, tears and fear in my eyes, while a waste of a man shouts horrible words at me.
“Are you fucking deaf, faggot? I asked what are you?” James barks.
James grabs my head and rams it against the wall.
My temple collides with the bricks. Instantly, a ringing forms in my ears, my temple starts to throb, and a nauseous feeling fills me.
Then, James punches me in the abdomen, winding me.
I double over because of the pain and fall to the ground. My bag falls with me.
Something inside me awakens. It’s like a light switch has been flicked on, rousing a defensive instinct. It’s powerful. It’s exactly what I need.
On the carpeted floor, I force myself to get to my hands and knees. I crawl away from James. Before he can catch me, I’m back on my feet. The pain in my head and stomach are still there, but my defensive instinct has quietened them for now.
“What do you think you’re doing, faggot? I didn’t say I was done speaking to you,” James hisses.
With a hammering heart, I glance from left to right.
To my left is the elevator. To my right is an entrance to another office.
I could make a dash for either of them, but James would just wait here for me to return for my bags.
My phone is in my satchel, so I won’t be able to call anyone once I’m free.
It’s fight or flight. I only have one valid option: fight.
I widen my stance, eager to look more powerful. I exhale loudly.
James cackles at me. “What? You want to fight me now? You think you can take me, faggot?” James starts to fly around on his toes, like he’s Muhammad Ali prepping for a fight.
I think back to the self-defence classes I took in college. Go for the throat or groin, is whispered in my mind.
“It’s time for me to put this faggot in his place.”
James charges towards me, his fist raised in the air.
I wince but stand my ground. When James swings for me, I duck to avoid his fist. As I dodge him, his fist travels over my head, leaving the rest of his body open.
Seeing my target clear as day, I land a powerful punch on his neck.
I feel my fist collide with his Adam’s apple.
James stumbles backwards, clutching at his throat. He’s struggling to breathe. His voice is raspy when he shouts, “What have you done to me, you dirty little faggot?”
As he stumbles backwards, he trips over one of Melissa’s discarded tote bags. He falls onto his buttocks.
Through coughs, James chokes out, “Faggot.”
I stand over him. I contemplate what to do.
If I leave him here or hit him again, I’m no better than he is.
I need to be the bigger person. Maybe if he sees that a ‘faggot’ can actually help him, his opinion will start to change.
It’s a long shot, but at least it doesn’t paint him as the victim in this story.
So, instead of hitting him again, I ask, “Do you want a hand up?”
James ignores me and rolls over onto his side.
He presses his hands into the ground to try and lift his weight upwards.
He’s unsuccessful. He falls back onto his elbow, breathless.
While his back is turned to me, I crouch down and secure my arms under his shoulders.
On the count of three, I put all my strength into lifting him up.
James pushes upwards too. Working together, we get him to his feet…
eventually. I wipe my hands on my pink suit jacket as James fights to stay vertical.
“Is there anything you want to say to me, James?”
He regards me, opens his mouth but quickly closes it. For a second, it looks like he’s going to apologise; this is obvious from the way he hangs his head and wears pitiful, regretful eyes. In the end, he turns on his heel and speed walks out of the office.
I take another look at the words on my desk.
I stare at them with narrow, red-hot eyes.
The last ten minutes were horrifying, traumatic.
Still, I manage to find a positive. By doing what I did tonight, I may have rid the world of another bigot.
More than that, I proved that I can defend myself. I don’t need anyone to save me.
I don’t need to be afraid of James Adams anymore.