Through The Valley by Yates, B.D. (feel good books .txt) 📕

  Danger. Danger. Extreme pressure. Danger. Danger.

  "Honestly, Poke? I wish it had been you that got killed out there," Emmit said shakily. "Clean this place up a little bit."  He thought he might regret those words, especially if Poke decided to, say, grab a hunk of firewood and pound them back into his mouth. Instead, Poke laughed at him again, mimicking a deep belly laugh with his hands folded under his ribs. It made Emmit feel small. Everyone made him feel small. The needle dropped past "E" and the danger light went a solid red. Explosion imminent.

  "Alright Papa, I'll tell ya what. Roy don't like it when his guys fight. What do you say we settle up, right here, right now?"

  Trap. It's a trap.

  "I can't beat you in a fight," Emmit grumbled begrudgingly.  Poke waved the confession away like it was a fly loitering in his face.

  "I don't mean a fight. I already beat you, and I damn near broke your arm. I'm saying I'll give you a free shot."

  He tapped the oily skin covering his cheek and chin, cocking his head to one side.

  "Right here. Give me everything you got, knock me out cold if you can. Then we'll be square."

  Emmit thought, You and I will never be square, Poke. I watched you kill someone to save your own ass and now you want me to lie about it. You don't square that.

  Emmit didn't budge, and Poke feigned confusion.

  "What, you don't like my offer?"

  Emmit stared deep boreholes through him, focusing instead on rubbing his aching arm. He was clenching it rather than massaging it, causing himself more pain than he was easing.

  "Ohhhhh, I get it. You don't know how to punch a guy in the face, is that it? You gotta wait for your nigger friend to come back and do it for you. If he's not dead too, that is."

  That smile. That rotten, shit eating chemical-eroded smile. Emmit felt like he could burst into a frenzy of tears at any moment. He didn't dare allow Poke to see him lose it, but sometimes he got so angry, so overwhelmed with emotion, that tears were the only outlet he had. Sometimes, it was either cry or lose his mind entirely— but a man crying made him look weak, so then the tears fueled the anger even more. It was a vicious, toxic cycle. Emmit usually just did his best to not get angry at all.

  For the first time in his life, Emmit began to honestly consider the fact that maybe he wasn't such a nice, gentle guy. Maybe he was capable of crime and violence and brutality; weren't all people, when pushed to their breaking point? Standing there, shaking with exponential rage as Poke kept taking shots at him, he felt like a coiled viper chased into a corner by a predator. His breaths were rapid and shaky. His skin was radiating heat. He couldn't take much more.

"He's probably about as weak as you are, honestly," Poke was droning on, tapping his chin with his finger as if performing a deep mental analysis of the Reverend. "I'm surprised he's survived as long as he has, he's not real good in a fight either. If we needed some crops tended to, now that's where I think he'd do some good..."

"Poke, I'm warning you," Emmit whispered. He was panting now, beads of sweat budding out from his hairline and dotting his forehead like condensation on a beer mug. "Stop."

I can't take anymore. Not one more word. One more racist remark, one more shitty insult, and I'm going to stab him.

Emmit released one clenched fist and passed it over the vague hump of the broken spear head under his clothes. The feel of it under his shaking palm scared him for two reasons; because he honestly didn't know any more if he was capable of killing a living person (or if he already had) and because the feeling of his control slipping away felt amazing.  He couldn't remember ever feeling more alive, not even when he had finally lost his virginity. He craved the violence that his racing pulse was promising.

  "Hey, what's your bitch like? We don't get a whole lot of pussy in here, and when we do Roy won't let us near it. She hot?  Big titties? You know, I hope she is a bitch, so maybe your boy can learn to be a little more of a hardass than you are. Must be hard having such a cuck for a dad. Now, if I were his dad, I'd—"

  That did it. Emmit's fist was like a harpoon, lashing out from his body so fast that he felt the crushing pain in his hand and wrist before he even heard the meaty whap of his knuckles connecting with Poke's eye socket. Poke's head snapped back, and Emmit saw with immeasurable satisfaction that it had instantly begun to puff up, turning a pinkish red that would soon fade to purple and black. But that wasn't enough. No, one was not enough. Fifty would not be enough.

  Emmit grabbed Poke by the throat with both hands, grunting with exertion, trying to crush his windpipe closed. Poke was smiling at him, even as he was sucking down each breath as if through a straw. He didn't try to defend himself. Instead, he folded his spidery arms behind his back.

  "There... he is..." Poke wheezed. "Your... boy... might..."

  "SHUT UP!"

  Emmit let go of Poke's neck, where his blackened hands had left two dark patches that looked like a spectral bird with its wings spread. He cocked his arm back, barely registering the pain in his hand, and pistoned his arm out again, harder this time, hard enough for the momentum to drop him to his knees.

  His fist found Poke's mouth with a sound like a cork popping out of a wine bottle, mashing his lips into