1.7

            "She wants you to let go of her."

            The words are not my own, nor the other man in the alley who's standing off from us. In fact, I have no idea where the voice comes from. I have to follow Scooter's gaze to the street behind me – the street I thought was empty.

            My mouth opens, ready to form a word. But then I remember, I don't know his name. I only know that he gave me his jacket and that he's a drummer. He also smokes, but that's it. Facts I can only count on one hand.

            Scooter and the other guy laugh darkly, as if it were a ten year old child standing at the entrance and not a full grown man. It's now that I really see him clearly – a flickering street light illuminating him from across the street. A plain black t-shirt covers half of a tattoo, the ink that appears to be similar to a tree. It starts at his shoulder, I assume, and trails down his arm, ending its branches on his hand before they reach his fingertips. Another one which I can decipher as the light goes out again sits on the inside of his forearm.

            "Yeah?" Scooter snickers. "And what are you gonna do about it?"

            "I think you already know, S."

            My eyes widen. They know each other?

            Scooter tenses and suddenly something wet drips onto my wrist and trickles down my skin. Slowly, I look over, the colour red staining my arm. Normally the sight of blood doesn't scare me, or even cause me to look away. But when I look up to see it dripping from Scooter's nose, I instantly begin to rip myself away from him.

            My savior sighs, shaking his head as he runs his fingers through the front bangs of his tousled hair. "Still toking?" He lifts his head. He doesn't look impressed. "And you really think you can take me? You're not even sober."

            Finally I get my wrist out of his grasp, pain encircling it as I clasp it within my other hand, ignoring the mess of the blood on me. It hurts worse than before, as if he had fractured my bone.

            "Why don't you come over here and find out?" Scooter asks, straightening up. He forgets about me, facing the entrance with his body as I stumble off to the side.

            "Maybe I will," says his opponent. He rolls his head around once, stretching before he makes his approach.

            Scooter hunches over, his hands quickly balling into fists as he prepares for whatever comes next. His friend hasn't said a word, and when I look back, he's watching the soon to be fight out of the corner of his eye. He's leaning against the brick wall, smoking a cigarette. He doesn't care what's going on. He's disinterested.

            My wrist throbs as I look up, watching a tattooed blur move across my sight and before I can process what's happening, blood is dripping onto the ground. Whether new or the flow from Scooter's nose, I don't know.

            Scooter tries to punch back, reaching for a collar to grab onto so he can swing but he's too slow, as if time for him is half what it is for us. His recent drug use is his downfall, and before he can dodge, another fist is coming his way.

            I look away, down at my wrist and roll it around, trying to see if Scooter's death grip did any damage. It hurts and other than blood and a red mark, I don't sense anything wrong. It's not broken.

            Scooter's pinned up against a wall, tattooed hands holding him up by his shirt against the brick so tightly that his face is red and it's not from the punches.

            "Don't you ever touch her again," the guy seethes. "If I ever see you near her again, if you ever fucking touch her, next time I'll actually try."

            "Dude, aren't you going to help?" S grunts to his friend.

             He barely looks over from his cigarette and flicks his ashes before taking a puff and throwing the white butt onto the ground. His strides are slow as he makes his way towards the two guys, but he doesn't go for the one who's holding his friend.

             Instead, he grabs Scooter's shoulders and nods his head towards them both. "You can let him down. I've got him."

            I watch as tattoo guy shoves him into the wall – hard, before dropping him to the ground.

            Scooter looks pissed and lunges for his attacker, but his friend holds him back. They walk away, leaving us alone. My eyes drift along the blood trail, counting the drops.