TAMING THE WILD RIDER

The hallways were filled with screams. Everyone was running toward the screams instead of away from them. Several folks sped past me, nearly toppling my backpack off my shoulder as they brushed past. Everyone was excited to see whatever was going down.

I ignored my better judgment and followed the student wave after readjusting the strap on my rucksack.

I rounded the corner in the corridor cautiously and looked over the gathering mass of nodding heads while standing on my tiptoes. They were all staring at something I couldn't quite see yet, muttering to each other. I dodged under a few arms and worked my way to the front, slowly ignoring the strong smell of hormonal teenagers who still hadn't realized the value of deodorant.

My conscience was warning me to turn around and avoid getting entangled in the chaos unfolding a few feet in front of me. However, there was an even more powerful force propelling me ahead into the growing cluster of pupils. I continued to crouch and edge closer.

Then I caught sight of him.

slamming the face of another lad.

Hudson Zane, covered in blood and perspiration, appeared oblivious to the gathering crowd surrounding him and the spectacle he was creating. His white shirt was lying limply across his body, shredded, perhaps by the other guy's futile attempt to stop him. His ripped lip and broken nose sent dark blood streaming down his chiseled chest and over his destroyed shirt.

He was also red-cheeked and puffed up, and he kept pulling back and hitting the other boy in the face. His attacks had an almost animalistic rage and aggressiveness. It was unlike anything I had ever seen.

Teachers were yelling and buzzing about anxiously, begging the lads to stop but being too scared to physically intervene to stop Hudson's fists. However, the crowd's jeers were so loud that their entreaties to stop were hardly audible, with most of them joyfully screaming Hudson's name. This was a performance put on solely for our amusement.

For Hudson, though, this went beyond a performance. I noticed it in his gaze.

His eyes captured my attention amid all the mayhem, screaming, and overpowering body odor. The innate desires underlying his irises. His grey eyes, trained on his opponent, possessed a particular intensity, a calculated desire for agony. If you didn't pay close attention, you may believe Hudson had lost his mind. However, Hudson had complete control over each wound he caused and each contraction and release of his powerful, slender body. He was fully aware of what he was doing. He was going at the boy in front of him with all of his might and no mercy.

His eyes yearned for anguish, and he intended to extract it from the youngster by aggression and gore. I felt something deep in my chest, something other than terror, as I stared into the depths of his eyes.

I was so engrossed in the idea of this child in front of me taking another person's life that I lost count of time. I was unsure of the amount of time that had gone by when three police officers, not the small-framed high school security officers, had their large arms encircling Hudson and attempting to yank him away. They were able to extract him from the other boy, even though he was giving them serious competition.

I had a clear view of the victim of the Hudson as paramedics attended to his opponent. He was someone I knew from my fourth period. Tyler Herring is a boy who once made fun of our teacher's receding hairline and offered me notes when I was sick with the flu. I knew him, I had interacted with him; he was a human being in need of CPR.

I glared back at the creature who had done this to him, sneering at the idea of him still standing there, pretending he hadn't nearly killed Tyler. I was going to avert my gaze when he noticed it. And he grasped it.

Once more, I had conflicting emotions that told me to flee and never turn around, and to have the bravery and confidence to stare this monster of a boy down. He was dabbing a damp towel over his bloodied face as I watched, and I hated myself for thinking such thoughts. His blood-streaked, aristocratic nose, with its flawless slope, was displaying a new bump. Despite my best efforts, I couldn't help but notice the deep Cupid's Bow above his luscious lips, which were now swollen and quite bloody.

He had an uneven nose and a split lip, but he was oddly attractive.

His eyes were revealing his feelings once more, but this time I was unable to interpret what was going on there. However, even as he turned away, I could still feel his gaze on me and his ability to see right into my soul.