*Somewhere in Barcelona, in a place and time I do not care to remember, a tortoise lived not long ago who on this occasion finds, much to his regret, that there are some blows a hard shell does little against...*




The long summer day was winding down to a close and as they did every evening, the streetlamps turned on in sequence, flickering uncertainly before casting their yellow glow into the darkening neighbourhood. A hot, humid calm floated over the rows of houses, its denizens preparing for a well deserved rest after a long commute.


Just then the door of the Torrealba household swung open, casting a rectangle of bright light onto the sunset driveway. Out stormed a large tortoise, jaw and features set as if in stone. Stiffly, he walked towards a battered blue Nissan Navara, yanked the door open and flinged an equally battered looking suitcase, clothes poking out from the edges, into the passengers seat.


After circling the car and wrestling the drivers door open he fiddled with his keys trying to find the ignition. In his haste, the keyring slipped from his fingers and chinked noisily on the pavement as it slid under the vehicle. Cursing loudly, the tortoise bent down to retrieve them. 


As he rose, his eyes drifted upwards to the darkened second story window to find that a younger version of himself was staring back:


Eyes wide, hands and beak pressed against the glass panes of his bedroom, hardly breathing, Baltasar’s gaze met with his father’s.


Diego had seen that look on his son’s face only once before, many years ago: He had pulled him coughing and shivering from the waves, the then much smaller tortoise holding back tears and hugging him as tight as he could.


There was so much he wanted...needed, to tell him but the few meters separating them felt more like a chasm and any words he could have mustered choked and died in his throat.


Finally, after a minute that lasted longer than it had any right to, the older tortoise lowered his gaze, shoulders slumped, as he got into the old car and drove off under the now dark sky.


The door was still ajar, casting its white shadow after the red tail lights in the distance when the sound of glass shattering broke the silence once again . Baltasar crept down to the first landing and peered inside the darkened living room, there he made out the still silhouette of a shell similar to his but narrower, more petite.


In the dark and alone with her thoughts, Camila del Toboso sat still, sobbing quietly into her hands which she held tightly to her face, not noticing her son standing in the doorway.


On the floor were several portraits, the photographs they held covered in shards of glass, their frames split and broken. In the dim light, baltasar couldn't make out the images, but he knew them by memory, they would sit on the coffee table, arranged in a line:


An old faded one of his parents as young couple, holding hands.


Another one with Diego in elegant black, his mother Camila in stunning white, kissing.


Then there was one with the two at the beach waving at the camera, a tiny tortoise in between them holding their hands….


A surge of something pitch black, terrible and sickening was welling up in the pit of Baltasar’s stomach, crawling up his chest and gripping it like a vice. He couldn't think, he couldn't breathe, he was drowning again...


From that room and from that house, Baltasar ran as fast as he could, he needed to get away, someplace, anyplace, far, far away.


*some time later*


How long since he had been walking he didn't know and didn't care. The large tortoise lumbered around the streets with no real direction in mind and what few people crossed his path were quick to give the somber looking reptile a wide berth.


Usually after an argument at the house he would take to long walks like this to try and gather his thoughts. This time it wasn’t working. Try as he might, no calm could be found within him. He knew this time it was different. Some terrible little voice in the back his head told him this would be the last time he would hear his parents argue, but for all the wrong reasons.


His fathers stare...the photographs... Every time he thought back on what had happened he felt nauseous, his mouth watered as if he was about to throw up and the cars zooming past and the bright glow of neon signs only helped to add to the maelstrom inside his skull. Spying a passage up ahead, he ducked into a dingy little alley to try and escape the light and noise. 


In his current state however, Baltasar failed to realize he wasn't alone: Two figures, a wiry looking possum in a hoodie and a rather large weasel wearing a yellowed tank top had been leaning on the alley wall. Lost in his thoughts as he was, he didn't even notice the pair as he walked past, despite the reek of alcohol wafting about them.


Bruno and Tomás were both a couple of years older than Baltasar. Schoolmates blessed with a rather large growth spurt in their youth and one they had made a point of abusing, much to everyone else’s misery, for as long as Baltasar could remember.


The tortoise’s size alone would have guaranteed no one bothered him, but Baltasar had himself made a point of stepping in every time he caught them harassing another student. Doggedly getting in the way whenever they were up to something. To a point where a scuffle between the three of them became an almost everyday routine, as well as parental visits to the Director’s office.




Baltasar had remained in school to finish his baccalaureate, while they left two years ago. They tried to start a fight with Baltasar every time their paths would cross, which was strangely often. The tortoise would simply shrug them off each time, and after an attempted cheap shot from Bruno turned into a broken fist against his shell, they learned to leave him alone. Still, they would never pass down the chance to throw an insult or two at the reptile whenever they saw him lumbering past. 


And tonight would be no different.


“Well well well, if it isn’t the mute cocksucking torti” spat Bruno as he straightened up, cracking his knuckles and flexing his tattooed biceps, he was only a foot shorter than Baltasar and had a very thick build for a weasel. As he spoke Baltasar caught the glint of gold filling some of his front teeth.


“You lost torti? It IS way past your bedtime no?” added Tomás next to him. The opossum was much smaller and wiry than Bruno, his whiskers were bent and broken but he at least seemed to sport most of his own teeth.


Baltasar remained silent, but was now acutely aware of the two. Reflexively his body tensed up as it did years back. He did not have time for this, not now of all moments, so he kept walking deeper into the alley towards the distant exit on the other end.


“Oh no, no, no you can't leave yet torti!” drawled the weasel, slinking quickly past Baltasar and blocking his path arms outstretched “We have SO much to catch up on…” Bruno’s eyes were bloodshot and there was a slight twitching in his left eye. “Still fancy yourself the school hero huh? Got a little fucking cape and everything?”


“Compensating for that tiny prick of his” snickered the opossum, getting up and to the other end of the alley.


-Figures- Baltasar thought, all bark and not bite. Same ol same ol. Whatever they were saying wasn't even registering in his mind, he just felt their voices adding to the noise. He moved forward, determined to shove past Bruno if he had to.


Baltsar chose his words carefully “Get. Out. Of. My. Way. NOW” he said looking down at Bruno.


“Ooh he speaks! And all these years I thought you were a bit slow in the head”


Bruno shoulder checked him as he walked past. Baltasar didn't react but instead kept walking away, his pace wa


“You never did have the balls to fight did you torti?”


“Do turtles even HAVE balls man?”  snickered Tomás, evidently proud of his witty remark.


“Yeah they're no fun at all. Maybe I could go visit his house tho, bet that whore momma of his would give me a nice blowjob”

Baltasar stopped dead in his tracks.

A delighted grin spread across Bruno’s face as he pressed his advantage “Well if she fucked that deadbeat dad of his, she’d fuck anyone. I bet ol’ Balty here fucked her too. Tell me torti, your momma’s twat all nice and tight?”


“Bruno, dude gross! You’d really let that ugly beaked freak do ya?”

“Why not?” Bruno said grabbing his crotch in an exaggerated motion, red eyes still trained on the tortoise’s back. “Bet she’d take what I got to giv-”

WHAM!

Baltasar had turned on the spot with surprising speed, his fist crashing into Bruno’s face mid-sentence. The weasel staggered backwards and fell over some trash bags beside a dumpster. 


Tomás was quickly by his side helping him up. Bruno's eyes locked on Baltasar’s as he got to his feet.


“Big, big mistake torti” He said, hair bristling and snarling. “I’ve waited a long time for-”


“Ohh shit dude, your tooth!” shrieked the opossum, eyes wide and jaw agape. His long yellow claw pointing at the hole where Buno’s canine would have been.


“Shut up Tomás!” he said shrugging off the opossum. His eyes were more bloodshot than ever as a shiver ran down his body, a mad glint in his eye: “I want to enjoy this...”.  He lunged.


 WHAM!

Bruno swung at the tortoise without warning, his fist aiming for his sides which were less protected by that shell of his. If the punch had hurt, Baltasar didn't show it. As his own fist sailed for the weasel’s chest, Bruno was ready for it. He gasped for only an instant before he replied with a well aimed punch at the tortoise’s jaw.


Tomás meanwhile circled around the two, waiting for an opening, wearing a pointy yellow smile to match his eyes as he unfurled a thin rope. Seeing his window, he jumped atop the tortoises back, wrapping it around his long neck and pulling tightly. Baltasar staggered, choking and trying to withdraw his head into his shell, but that only further tightened the cord.


Bruno cackled. “Hold him tight Tomás! I wanna see if this fucker can turn blue!”, all the while throwing punch after punch on the reptiles exposed face.


Stars were erupting everywhere in Baltasar’s vision while darkness crept in from the sides. Half blacking out, Baltasar backed up against the alley’s brick wall, crushing Tomás against his shell.

The opossum let out a loud squeak and his grip on the rope loosened. Baltasar craned his neck to yank the length away from his hands and began tearing it away from his neck… He was so distracted by the rope that he didn't see Bruno, a rusty pipe in his hands, flying at him.


CRRRRACK!

The giant tortoise staggered backward, reeling from the impact. He would have crushed Tomás a second time had the marsupial not scampered out of the way. Finally, Baltasar slumped to the ground with a dull thud.


“Holy fuck Bruno!” Tomás gasped, looking at the weasels handiwork. Baltasar was breathing heavily, deep red spots appearing on his shirt every time he did.


“That’s what you get for messing with me shitstain” gloated Bruno, kicking one of the tortoise’s legs. “You act all tough, but you're just a scared little prick like everyone else”. He dropped the pipe with a clatter and turned to leave “Tell your mom I sai-”

“Hey Bruno, found your tooth!” called out the opossum proudly. He was bent down and pointing to a bloody yellowed canine on the dingy alley floor.


“Tomás I told you to shut the fu-”


AAAAAAARRRRRRRGGHHHH!!!!


Bruno turned to the roar just in time to see that Baltasar had jumped to his feet and was running straight at him. The massive reptile rammed into the weasel like a steam engine, slamming him against the opposite wall of the alley. There was another, much fainter cracking sound as a large green fist sunk deep into the the weasel’s chest.


Baltasar didn't even feel the beer bottle Tomas had thrown at his shelled back, or the many increasingly desperate blows Bruno was landing on his head. A scream was rising from the very pit of his being, filling his every thought with pure, naked fury. His heart was pounding so hard beneath the fractured shell it felt like every desperate beat was agony. 


He was a child again. And he was drowning, just like the memory burned into his mind. He couldn't breathe. His vision was blurry. But each punch he threw at his attacker felt like a stroke to the surface. So he swung. Again. And Again. And again. The target was meaningless. Chest, arms, head. Baltasar didn't care


Bruno’s knees buckled beneath him as he slid to the ground, leaving a crimson trail behind him. He wasn’t moving at all. But a cold reckless rage had taken over Baltasar, and he gripped the weasel by his tattered shirt raising him off his feet. A mix of blood and spittle dripped from his beak, nostrils flared and bleeding from the blows he had received and his yellow-green eyes were contracted into thin slits. Wordlessly, slowly, he pulled his arm back, balling his hand into a tight fist, readying another blow.


“STOP!”


Tomás had flung himself at Baltasar’s outstretched arm, gripping it tightly  “Dude, don’t...don’t….no more”. Hot tears were streaming down his terrified face.

Baltasar shook his arm furiously, but the opossum would not let go. He turned and gave cold stare at him. Tomás had always been Bruno’s lapdog with no real fight in him. The marsupial’s eyes darted rapidly from the reptile’s cold stare to Bruno’s limp form, still held up high in the tortoise’s grip. 


“Please, please...just...stop...please” he choked.


The alley became very quiet except for Tomas’s sniffling. Baltasar blinked a few times and looked at the furred body he was holding in a vicegrip. It was as if he could look clearly for the first time during the entire night. And what he saw made his jaw slacken and a chill run down his spine. Crimson stained the weasel’s dirty and matted fur. A steady trickle of red was dripping from his head onto Baltasar’s arm. Not a single breath escaped the battered mustelid and he felt awfully cold in the reptile’s grip. Slowly, as if in a trance, Baltasar lowered him, laying his body to rest against the wall. 


Baltasar rose and looked at his handiwork in silence, his shirt splattered with his own blood and the weasel’s. He looked at his hands, noticing his knuckles were coated in red…


“No….” He muttered

“Is he...is he…?” Tomás swallowed hard, shivering all over, edging away from the scene without taking his eyes off the two.


“Call an ambulance”


Tomás hiccuped in between his sobs and looked up at him “Wh..what?”


“I said, call an ambulance!” Baltasar’s voice was hoarse and it was taking him great effort to keep it steady.


Tomás noded and bolted out of the alley, tail between his legs while Baltasar sat on opposite wall, looking at Bruno’s body.


The world felt like it was collapsing in on him, as a different kind of knot now churned inside his guts. How could this have happened? How could he have messed up this badly? It was his fault. He knew it. Everything tonight was his fault.


The blare of the ambulance sirens tore him back to the grim scene. Alongside the paramedics there was a pair of police officers walking towards them, followed behind by Tomás.


“He killed him!” Tomás cried, pointing a shaking finger at Baltasar, eyes wide and puffy “He, he killed..” he choked again and hugged himself to stop his shivering.


The paramedic that approached him hardly needed to bend down to be at eye level with Baltasar, who was still sitting, still staring at Bruno. It was only when another doctor approached the weasel and blocked his view that he realized he was being spoken to.


“Are you hurt? Can you speak?” asked the paramedic. From the corner of his eye, Baltasar saw the other doctor taking Bruno’s limp wrist into his hand.




The adrenaline rush had long since left him, and a growing pain had spread itself through his chest. His neck was cut and his beak was still numb from the beating. At least the blood had congealed and hardened by now.


“Is he Ok?” was all he could reply.


The paramedic’s eyes narrowed at him but he said nothing. He got to work on him and cleaned up the more obvious wounds.


“Nasty crack kid. That one’s gonna leave a mark”


Baltasar said nothing. He felt numb.


“You there, come here!” said a much deeper and stern voice. 


The paramedic helped Baltasar get to his feet. Despite the pain, he didn’t wince. Even at 17, Baltasar was still taller than the burly rottweiler police officer and much bulkier. Still he meekly complied and approached him, head down. 


He didn't really listen to what the officer was saying. Something about him being a punk, and being damned lucky he wasn't dead. He wished we was.


“He ain’t listenin to ya Alonso! Must be high on something” said one officer to the other.


“His pupils are not dilated. He isn-”


 “Better safe than sorry, Edward. I’m cuffing him” spoke the rottweiler, interrupting the paramedic.


And just like that, Baltasar was lead to the police car, made to fit in the cramped back seat, and was driven down to the station. The whole time, he didn’t say a word. There in the back of the police car, as it twisted and turned through the streets while the cops up front chattered behind the plexiglass, did it all finally hit him.


Tears silently streamed down his face, turning red as they lapped up traces of blood. He didn't care the officers could see him nor did he listen or remember anything they said or tried to say to him on that drive to the precinct. Baltasar just wept, cuffed hands covering his face. It was his fault, it was ALL his fault... 


It was the longest car drive in his life.


At the station he was offered a phone call, but refused. Who could he call after all this? His mother? His father? Maybe...Richter? No, no need to wrap his friend in all this mess. But… who? He was alone now. And that thought echoed inside him as he lay down on the tiny, bare bunk inside his cell. The one good thing about that evening was that Baltasar was so exhausted that blessed, dreamless sleep came almost instantly.
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