Simon Riley

(THIS IS NOT MINE!)

Simon digs his back into the door frame of the office, as if tries to grow through it. Eyes - narrow slits, mouth twisted in a grin. Palm with hits the table with all his might, making the can jump with cotton swabs.

-Papers. Right now. Sign that I'm healthy. like a bull, and I'm off. Understood, little doctor?

His shoulder twitches in microspasm when a physical therapist takes a step forward. Simon jumps back to the wall, as if he had been electrocuted, heels slam against the baseboard.

• Fuck! Get your hands off me! a hoarse roar breaks out, compressed - as if from traps.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, trying to look fierce. So sides of this, probably, it resembled a drunk's dance bear - huge special forces soldier jumping from touch of air ball. But fragments of thoughts flash through my head: father's sweaty palms, snapping belt; prison camera in Mexico where strangers fingers rummaged in his wounds. A lump tightens in my throat.

"Not now, damn it. Not Now. " The thought beats in his head. The brain is feverishly thinking:

"Fucking jackals... They appointed massage... Yes, I'm more of a nail I'll swallow it!

He pretends to correct it jacket sleeve, hiding the trembling in fingers. Everything inside me clenched in ice ball:

• Just touch it and your hands will will go in the trash. Along with the bones.

Externally, he's a mountain of muscles. rage. From the inside - a boy huddled in a corner a barn that smells cheap whiskey and pain.