Iscariot’s Kiss by Wyatt Hawk

He’s one of those skinheads—not the Nazi types, but the old British kind from the 60s, with the shaved head and safety pins as a nose ring. I like him ‘cause he’s soft. It’s almost inspiring, how well he’s able to diffuse a situation by just being honest, like some spiritual leader guiding a meditation before the kool-aid. I guess you could call him the leader of their little studded-leather group. But calling the shots, being all strategic, that’s not his forte. He leads from his heart, and somehow that’s what makes any rival gangs whimper when they see him. They sniff out his passion. 

Now, I couldn’t tell you where that passion comes from. Everyone’s curious to find his true weakness—not the mask of tears he wears so his fists don’t get bloody, no, they want the stuff that can break him. And I’m sussing it out, slowly, in all my close time with him. The only thing I’m sure of right now is, he’s not motivated by money. Not fame. His family’s dead, so it’s not some ploy to keep them safe. But that’s what gets me—nothing about him says ‘orphan’. If anything, his childhood was fantastic, what with all the vulnerability swimming in his wide, glassy cow-eyes. Unlikely, though. People don’t get fairytale childhoods in the slums like this. 

So maybe the true answer, as he wraps his arms around the other kids with shaved heads and piercings, is that his family’s not just blood. Maybe his family’s the gaggle of ‘mini-him’s running around with his same brand of softness brewing inside. What I’m learning is, he would do anything to keep his family safe. To protect them from danger. From rivals. I allow myself a smile. One of the kids notices me as I flick my cigarette, sitting a few benches away from his little group, watching. Waiting. What I know about him is a lot, by now. What he’ll know soon is, he’d do anything to protect his family. From me.