The boy stood in the face of his enemy, his fists clenched.
Before I tell what is happening now, I'll explain his story:
17 year old Ben slid down the stairs. His mother smiled at him and without a word handed him an apple. He took it and with a grateful look he was out the door. Outside his girlfriend stood, trembling. What's wrong? He asked. You-I-dad-no-bad-kill... He understood. He was wrong, so wrong. He should've never disobeyed. Now his girlfriend was at stake. Her father would send her to the police and would do anything to keep her in jail. He'd make it so she'd die in jail. And their unborn child would die too, never seeing the daylight. He had to do something.
Months later Ben was lying on the sidewalk, a police officer holding a gun to his face. Ben's face was dripping blood, black wounds tore at his cheeks and forehead, arms and hands. His girlfriend was being shoved in the black and white cop car, her belly the size of a basketball. She was crying his name, but he was busy staring at death. Death was pushed in his face and clicked in his head. He could die right then and there. He only had to say no, but if he did his child and girlfriend would be saved. He looked up at the sweating police officer's face. Seconds passed, maybe minutes. He grinned, No... He girlfriend heard an echoing fire.
That was all the boy knew about his father, and he was named after his brave dad. He'd been living in a boy's home since he was 4, when his mother had died of infection. He never knew how she got hurt, but she did. And she didn't have enough money to pay for the doctor bills. He had been taunted by the other boys, having a father who was shot and all. The other boys thought that his father was chicken, not wanting his girlfriend to die and all. But this Ben knew better. His father wasn't no chicken. He was braver than all those boys put together.
Ben, now 12, had escaped from the boy's home. He'd been caught now, by a few of the boys. He was ready to fight them. His dark hair blew to the side, his blue eyes shot holes in them. If his father could die in the face of death, he could at least take a punch or so.
But it was more than a punch. He got his arm broken, deep cuts on his face, and black and purple bruises dotted him. The boys pulled him through the streets, kneeing his chin so that he'd bite his tongue until it bled every time he called for help. He needed it, or he'd get a whipping that'd scar him forever. Maybe this time, they'd kill him like they killed his father. Help! he cried, They're gonna kill me!