getting beaten up

well... i`m not sure if this will help....but, i got beaten up before.

first time.... picked a fight with a guy... suddenly his big big big brother shows up, throws me against a fence and just pounded away at my face... next day, CAT scan, pressure fracture to my right cheek bone, a few loose teeth (luckily i kept them all)... lots and lots of ice, no playing rugby and after a few weeks you are ok.

second time... beaten really bad.. don't have any memory of the incident, trauma to the back of the head (apparentley it was kicked in), broken left fibula and my right ear was nearly ripped off... I still managed to keep my teeth though... so... two nights in the hospital, plaster cast on my leg for 3 weeks, 3 CAT scans to my head during the next two months, 8 stitches to keep my ear on the side of my head which were taken out after about 10 days or so....

oh, just to finish off, after i woke up in the hospital, the first thing i did was puke up gall... cool

Ive been in a good two hundred fights, and have been beaten up plenty of times. I learned humility. Many of my friends, they learned aggression. What eventually happened: I became a writer and many of my friends became jailees or dead. My best friend, he spends more time in jail than out of jail. He took a hellava head beating a few years ago, by four dudes with baseball bats, and since then his brain has ceased in continuing to provide many of the balancing chemicals normal people produce. Bipolar. He doesnt take his meds. So he can't control his outbursts. The acid he stated taking didnt help. The weed does help, but not enough. The point is, every story is different. My advice is, if you haven't been in a bad fight and lost, maybe you should write about a tragedy you are familiar with. If you make the sensations up, the chances are your reader will know. I'm not saying you should go out and get in a bad fight. But look at Fight Club:

Chuck got in a real bad fight once when he was camping. His face was an array of purple colors. He was amazed at how much people in his every day life always just seemed to ignore the obvious puffiness and bruises. How nobody wanted to know. Everybody that he talked to on a daily basis, coworkers, acquaintances, they all became surface-tredders--didnt want to get too deep. Not long later, he wrote Fight Club, and his protagonist narrated about just that, that no one wanted to know, to know about what was apparent, how they skipped and tiptoed eggshells around the subject. this is just advice, an opinion really, but yeah, write about what you know and work the story.

By the way, very good thread.
kabol

Thanks for the replies. JKabol, I totally agree with what you're saying, and I'm thinking about changing things around. However, I think to a certain degree we can describe certain moments which we haven't been a part of (otherwise... well, why have a research forum? ) And the person being beaten up is not the narrator (the narrator is only observing him)...

I was outed at school when I was fifteen and got a lot of stick about it.

I have some stuff I wrote about it when I was fifteen. I will go look for it. Keep in mind that I was fifteen - years before I ever picked up a Chuck Palahniuk book or seriously considered writing - so it's probably very self-indulgent and rubbish.

EDIT:

[QUOTE]

As I entered the second tunnel I could hear the distant whir of the kebab van engine. Thank Christ! People at last!! If anything was going to happen I would most certainly have expected it to happen in the tunnels of all places. They were quiet, empty, and completely out of the way; the perfect place to carry out a ruthless mugging on an unsuspecting, innocent civilian. My heart, however, sank when I left the tunnel, again somewhat visually impaired, only to spot a large group of people milling around the kebab van. I couldn’t see who they were but I decided that just in case I knew them I should take the high road instead of walking past them, so as not to cause any sort of unnecessary provocation.

I absolutely detest walking past groups of people. They are unpredictable. For all you know they could have seen you coming a minute ago and already planned who was taking which limb and in which direction they should carry you. Most groups I walk past have something to say about me; even if they don’t actually know me then they know me by reputation. It’s pathetic that people I have never even seen in my life, let alone spoken to, let alone done anything to upset, should already hold a grudge against me for doing something in private that doesn’t affect them in any possible way. It’s not like I even flaunt the fact that I am homosexual. I didn’t come out, I was outed by somebody else. I have never had a public relationship with any boy. I don’t act or dress or speak in a camp manner. I’m just a regular guy; yet still people feel it necessary to hurl unwarranted abuse in my direction dare I do so much as walk past them.

As I got closer and closer to the kebab van I spotted that the large group of people was none other than a “crew,” or maybe a “posse,” or some other collective noun for tossers. About ten or twelve baseball capped, burberry clad ghouls of the night lording it over their congealed meat kingdom. What they were doing out on a night like this God only knows. Maybe they had spotted the appalling conditions and realised that they would be practically undisturbed if they were to indulge in a crime spree this evening, though I very much doubt any rudeboy would have the mental capacity to concoct such a scheme. All I could see was that they were rudeboys, but I couldn’t tell if they were from school or how old they were so I decided that if I stuck to this high path and remained in the shadows they probably wouldn’t be able to recognize me, or even see me, so I stayed on the far side of the path and walked quietly and quickly amongst the hanging branches of the willow trees. The kebab van drew ever nearer and my heart began to beat faster and faster.

I made it in line with the kebab van. No jibes, no shouts, no remarks, they couldn’t have seen me. Relief set in as I relaxed and continued to walk on down the path. Past the other side of the kebab van and then along until the two paths met near the bridge. Then it began. As I had lined up with the kebab van when the two paths met they must have caught sight of me and recognized me.

“Oi! You fuckin’ queer! Come ‘ere!! Fuckin’ come back ‘ere you fuckin’ batty!! You’re fuckin’ sick mate!! Don’t fuckin’ ignore us!!”

One voice overpowered another, then another joined in, and another. Eventually they all blended into each other until I could only pick out a word every now and then, usually some variation on the insults they’d already shouted. I carried on walking. ‘They are at the kebab van hence they must be buying kebabs,’ I thought to myself, ‘so they’re hardly likely to follow you and leave their food behind.’

Just to reassure myself I turned to make sure they weren’t following me. To my utter horror some of them were following me, a group of them, about half, more than five, not all of them though. I couldn’t count, I didn’t want to. I tried to remain calm by telling myself again that they were only doing it to scare me or upset me because they wouldn’t want to leave their food behind. They’d realise soon that I wasn’t stopping and turn back, satisfied with their performance. But the shouting persisted and sounded closer with each beat of my now ‘off the scale’ heart. I turned the corner into the alley that lead to my road. I could feel tears welling up in my eyes. I knew what was going to happen before it even occurred. It was like one of those awful, horrendous nightmares where you try to scream and nothing comes out. I tried to run but I couldn’t. My body was shaking with the fear and my legs were numb enough as it was. Had I tried to run it would have been like trying to run with pins and needles, I would have just fallen flat on my face and been a sitting target, not that I wasn’t already. Instead of becoming faster I became so nervous and shaky that I started slowing down. My steps became shorter and I grew more panicky and out of breath with each metre that I managed to drag myself forward. I was so non-responsive; it was as though my body had already gone into shock in anticipation of what was to happen. The gentle wind blew into my watery eyes and the cold air turned my tears icy as they rolled down my cheeks.

“Come ‘ere you fuckin’ queer! You fuckin’ batty, fuckin’ come ‘ere!!!”

I began to sob, they were getting closer and closer and I couldn’t escape. This truly was a living nightmare. I swallowed hard and raised my numb hand to wipe away the tears but it was so cold that I couldn’t even feel the wetness against the back of my hand.

I turned the corner into the entrance of my road, a short, dark row of houses with two streetlamps dotted along it causing two large spotlight effects, but otherwise absolute blackness. I pushed forward at an excruciating pace, the cold and the shock having taken such a toll on my body already that I was finding it hard to function at all, let alone in an efficient way. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. My stomach constantly felt like I was hurtling downwards on some awful, get-wrenching fairground ride and I could literally feel my heart pounding in my chest and hear my pulse throbbing inside my head. I could feel myself swaying from side to side with the dizziness caused by this throbbing, I felt like I was going to collapse at any moment. I was only halfway along the path and they had already turned the corner into the road, jeering and shouting.

“Fuckin’ come ‘ere you fuckin’ gay prick! You fuckin’ batty cunt, fuckin’ come over ‘ere now!”

They were gaining on me, I had already almost reached the end of the path but it was too late. They were behind me, so close I could feel them, as if I could feel their aura. What could I do? If I tried to turn this last corner into my road and make it up the driveway to the first house it would have been impossible, I couldn’t run and the driveway was almost as long as this path. They’d have ravaged me within seconds. If I tried to continue ahead I had to cross a road to get to the first house, again, I had no chance of making it. There was only one thing I could do. One choice. I had to take it like a man and go down with my dignity in tact.

“Fuckin’ turn round you fuckin’ gay prick.”

I spun around. There were definitely more than five of them, but I couldn’t tell you the exact number. Each of them had a hooded top and a baseball cap on, hence disguising their identities. Fucking cowards. They want all the glory of beating up the local faggot but they are so cowardly that they won’t even show their faces while they do it. They want to boast about their actions yet they don’t want to face the consequences. Cowards. They were about a year younger than me, I would say, but they easily outnumbered me so whether they’d been fourteen or forty their ages wouldn’t have made the blindest bit of difference. The boy stood at the front, who I assumed to be the ‘leader’, wore a baby blue top with the hood up, a baseball cap underneath it, and a scarf around his nose and mouth. All I could see were his eyes and the tanned skin that surrounded them. His eyes were large and menacing. I can honestly say that I don’t think I have ever seen anybody look at me with that much contempt in my entire life. That look in itself would have been enough to reduce me to tears under normal circumstances but I knew there were far more important issues to deal with at this moment in time. His vicious, contemptuous look said it all but I didn’t want to go down like a sack of shit.

I looked angry. I was angry. I was fucking seething, these little pricks were younger than me and by all rights they should be fucking dead, but here they were, about to do me in, knowing that I didn’t have a hope in hell of fighting back. If I was gay but six foot six with arms like tree trunks they wouldn’t have started on me. My homosexuality was a mere excuse; the real reason they had chosen me was because they knew they could beat me. They knew that seven or eight teenagers against one, unarmed teenager was a fight they simply could not lose.

“What.” That was it, my comeback, in all its simplistic glory. All that abuse and all that shouting, all those insults they’d hurled at me, that whole chase only for me to reply with an irritated “what.” No fright. No sadness. I think that pissed them off even more. They’d wanted to see me crying or something but I’d choked back the tears when I knew they were coming. They wanted to see me at my weakest and in my saddest state; they weren’t expecting me to take the beating with such ease, they’d wanted me to beg or to run. Where was the thrill of the chase? Now they were seriously angry with me.

That’s when it all goes black.

The next thing I knew I was laying on my back on the cold, wet, gritty floor. My bag was no longer on my shoulders and I would realise later on that my glasses were no longer on my face. I must have been down for a significant amount of time for all that to have happened. I wasn’t really aware of my surroundings until I noticed that there was a group of people around me, kicking me in the sides, the legs, and the arms, all with such force. Kicking me harder than I remember having ever been kicked before - and I am a conisseur. They were really sticking the boot in, they must have really hated me. It was so frantic. All I could see was a frenzy of flailing limbs, a barrage of feet moving with such speed all around me, kick after kick after kick.

When had I gone down? I don’t remember the first punch, or anything, just being stood there, then being on the floor. I can only assume that I’d been punched with enough force to knock me out. And that hadn’t been enough for them, now they were relishing being able to cause me such pain and damage me in such a way. They were loving every minute of this beating. It was seemingly what they lived for.

“Help me!!” I screamed, now aware that this wasn’t going to stop any time soon. At this moment they stopped screaming, “faggot,” and “queer,” and instead began mimicking my cries for help and my agonising screams. That was dignity out of the window. Bugger. I should have begged.

I could hardly try to fight back, I was being pasted. Each kick seemed harder than the last and the pain became unbearable. Each time they kicked me they got more enjoyment, more sick pleasure than the last. They kicked harder and harder with each movement. I could feel the jabs and the knocks becoming far more intense. I could feel my insides beginning to ache.

“Help me please!!! Help me!!” I cried, my tone a mixture of anger, sadness and sheer pain.

It became apparent that the people in the houses either couldn’t hear my constant screaming for help and wails of agony, or just didn’t care. I moved both my arms to my sides and then backwards a little, trying to prop myself up with my elbows. I started to push myself into an upright sitting position, them kicking me all the way. It was especially difficult what with my being as numb as I was. When I eventually made it I saw a foot flying towards my face with immense speed. That’s when it came, an almighty fucking WHACK!! Some fucker had just kicked me straight in the nose, upwards. I flew backwards and my head hit the pavement. Hard.

That’s when it all goes momentarily black again.

When I next regained consciousness I again had no idea for how long I’d been out. I had now been kicked onto my side. My face was lying on the pavement, now muddy and wet, not particularly hygienic considering the amount of open wounds I now had. I had to try hard, but I opened my eyes only to see my bag, untouched, on the grass opposite. ‘That’s a relief,’ I thought, ‘at least they’re not mugging me.’ Yes, your mind does funny things when you’re being beaten senseless… that is honestly what I thought to myself when I saw my bag.

My whole body was now damp and dirty where I’d been on the floor for so long, but at least I wasn’t wearing white, then Mum would have been pissed off. I placed my numb hand on the floor and tried to push myself upwards again in a press-up fashion, in an attempt to stand up and get to a door. Unbeknown to me, as I pushed upwards from the floor one of them spotted my plan and ran around in front of my head. I got to my knees, still facing the floor, incredibly dazed and feeling sick, the rudeboys still throwing violent kicks and now fists into my back and legs, even occasionally the back of my had and neck. I looked up only to see, once more, a trainer-clad foot hurtling towards my face at lightning speed. It was one of those awful moments where you see something happening but don’t have time to do anything about it, so you just have to sit back and let it happen. Again I was struck directly in my nose and mouth, toe first, the foot version of an upper cut, sending my head backwards and jerking my neck violently like the final punch from a ‘Rocky’ film when all the spit and blood flies from the person’s mouth before they collapse to the ground and they are well and truly done for. That was I. Blood and spit guy.

That’s when I next fell down unconscious.

I only awoke from my stupor to see them running back around the corner into the alleyway, laughing and shouting, apparently quite pleased with their act of random violence which had provided them with an amazing opportunity to “big-up” their male bravado and re-enforce their heterosexuality in front of their bigoted fellow criminals. They had left me there, spot-lit in the middle of the pavement, unconscious and in a puddle of blood, which had seeped and was still seeping from various wounds, my face a mess, my body wet and freezing cold, covered with mud. They had no idea how much damage they’d done and they didn’t care either. I could have been dead or in a coma and they wouldn’t have given a shit as long as they’d made themselves look more straight in front of their “mates” for five minutes.

I was so cold. Being motionless for so long out there on that particular night had pretty much frozen me. I could feel barely anything. My adrenalin gland was in overdrive as well, numbing the pain to the extent that I felt nothing at all… almost as though this were a dream. I lay for a while, my head spinning, the whole World seemingly moving around me, whilst I remained unable to feel any part of my body. I supposed I’d better get up and get moving, even if this was a dream, which I truly believed it to be at this point. As I got up I was almost euphoric, everything was moving around me and I had that feeling you get when you sit cross-legged for too long and you can’t feel your foot so you end up limping. I had that all over my body. I couldn’t hold my head up so I was constantly looking at the sky and had to hunch over so that my head would fall forward and I’d be able to see where I was going. Everything teetered from left to right and I was unable to walk in a straight line. It was the most incredible yet bewildering sensation I have ever encountered.

‘What a strange dream,’ I thought to myself, ‘is this a dream? It must be, but it can’t be… was this whole day a dream? What’s going on? Was I just attacked?’

I was utterly dazed and confused. It was as though the whole day hadn’t existed and I had suddenly woken up in the middle of a surreal dream where I’d been asleep on the pavement. I stumbled awkwardly toward my bag and put it on my left shoulder before starting towards the road again. That was when it hit me that this was not a dream. I saw ahead of me and thought, ‘hang about, I was there a second ago.’ They’d kicked me around so much I was actually about halfway back down the path. How could that be? How hard were they kicking me!?

‘This wasn’t a dream. Oh my God this wasn’t a dream. I just got attacked.’ My first thought was not ‘are all my teeth still here?’ or ‘is my nose broken?’ No, it was, ‘Oh my God, what the hell kind of excuse am I going to have to tell Mum and Dad?’

I could barely walk, I was so numb and I was so dizzy. Adrenalin is supposed to make the situation more bearable, not make you incapable of any movement whatsoever. I staggered slowly towards the end of the path, an empty feeling in my limbs, not so much numb now, more like something inside tickled every time I moved them. My face naturally creased up of it’s own accord, I couldn’t control it, and tears began to form. I started to sob again. I couldn’t believe it had come to this. I was just walking home, minding my own business and this had happened, through no fault of my own. Unprovoked and innocent, I had fallen victim to a hate crime. A vicious, violent hate crime. Egg splattered windows I can put up with. Graffiti involving my name I can put up with. Pictures of people in wheelchairs posted through my front door I can put up with. This was beyond the beyond. This was ridiculous… This was too far.

I stumbled and I staggered, occasionally falling over where my limbs were so weak and the cold so limited my movement. I would fall to my knees in fits of sobs and take an age to clamber back to my feet because of my lack of control over my body.

About a minute and a half, maybe two minutes later when I was roughly a third of the way back down my road I lifted my arm up, jerkily, to wipe the water from my eyes. Again, I could barely feel this action with my arm or my face, but when I brought my arm back down I realised it was absolutely covered with blood. My whole face was covered with blood and I hadn’t even noticed because I was so numb that I couldn’t feel a damn thing. I couldn’t feel the wetness on my face or my arm, nor the warmth of the blood, everything was cold to the point of unfeeling.

At that precise moment it began to rain, thin, pathetic rain. I hate thin rain. If it’s going to rain then it should rain properly, not that boring, undecided drizzle. It was about then that I began to regain feeling in my body as well. As the rain dampened me further everything began to ache. My forehead and my crown ached. My neck ached. My eyes ached and one of them wouldn’t open. My nose was like thunder and my jaw was painful beyond belief. My whole body felt like I’d been stoned by a group of arrogant peasants, which isn’t as inaccurate a description as it would first appear.

I found it now harder to walk. The numbness had been banished because the pain was now so overpowering, but it felt like I was bruised all over which created a whole new disability for me. I collapsed far more frequently now; the stress on my body was far too large and I just kneeled in the street crying for what seemed like an eternity.

“Why won’t anybody help me?” I began to whine to myself, in-between sobs. A person walked past me on the pavement on the other side of the road. Surely they must have seen me. They must have been able to see me all the way from up the road. They must have heard my sobs. They must have seen me kneeling here, literally dripping with blood and weeping into my dirty, red hands. What the hell was wrong with people nowadays?

Now that I realised my head and face were bleeding I couldn’t help but continually dab at them with my jacket, and the more blood I saw the more worried and concerned I became. As I came to the last stretch of road before my house I started to cry harder and sped up to a run, with great difficulty, might I add. More of a gallop really, what with my limping. I realised at this point that I’d lost my key. It had been attached to my fingers as a knuckle-duster and now it was gone. I didn’t know whether I’d lost it during the attack or I’d absent-mindedly dropped it on my way up the road following the assault, in my numbness and confusion.

It took all my energy to pull the sliding porch open and then close it again. I was so relieved to be home, I felt like I was going to collapse from exhaustion at any moment. I hammered repeatedly and violently on the door. I rang the bell as well, I did both, but for a moment that seemed like forever it was seemingly to no avail. I was desperate and breathless. I was bleeding and bruised. Eventually I heard the door handle click downwards and it swung open in front of me…

[/QUOTE]

Not as shit as I thought it'd be, but still a bit shit.

Though even now I don't think I could eloquently describe that tremendous feeling of dread at knowing it was going to happen and at the same time knowing there was fuck all I could do about it. My legs just gave up on me. I kept tripping over myself - it felt like they were made of styrofoam.

And the beating itself was surreal. I was scremaing out for help without really knowing I was doing it. The whole experience was a bit distant. Not like an out of body experience... more like I was half asleep and my stomach felt like it does when you're hurtling down a rollercoaster.

[QUOTE=TwistedVision;928542]I was outed at school when I was fifteen and got a lot of stick about it.

I have some stuff I wrote about it when I was fifteen. I will go look for it. Keep in mind--[/QUOTE]

Keep in mind that the user who made this thread hasn't posted in about a year and a half and will most likely never receive your message.

I'm an infrequent visitor. I don't check all that stuff out and barely know how.

after a few consecutive weeks of showing up to work with black eyes....people stop asking about them, and [I]start[/I] asking questions when you [I]haven't[/I] had one in a while.

i got really big, swollen lips from a punch to the mouth once.

Guys, the guy that made the thread isn't here anymore. He's gone. The information you're providing will not be used, and even if he was still here or if other members were interested in researching this topic, the information you guys are giving is useless. You guys are merely mentioning that you have had a black eye or a busted lip, you aren't giving any details on the treatment, or how it affected you mentally, or anything.

a guy punched me in the forehead

it usually hurts to get beaten up.