Had Sandy Blister known he'd be seen that morning, especially by Nate Armstrong, Jr., never would he have so indulged. The big boy of grade six, Nate Armstrong, Jr., was best known for sleeveless T-shirts and hairy Popeye arms. Nate Armstrong, Jr. wound up and punched Sandy Blister square in the throat. There was no real need to hit the geek, except perhaps to cripple him further with self-consciousness, punish him for carrying himself, in that moment, so freely. Localized directly in Sandy Blister's Adam's apple, the hit was where it would hurt the most, as all eleven year-old boys would readily agree.
Kids are shits, almost deliberately.
Sandy Blister's shoelaces were snapping, there could be no doubt. They were also leaving red bruises in narrow bands across his throat, burning dryly. He couldn't actually see it happening, no, but of the marks he was sure. He might survive it all, perhaps, yet he'd always carry them, scars as souvenirs. His eyes closed tightly, then opened.