Step back.
His voice could be heard, but barely. It had the same attitude as the words “Excuse me.” He wasn’t angry or threatening or commanding. There was the same certainty as when you say your name after being asked.
The bully, the enemy, saw two possibilities, as certain as
memories, as final as history:
- He steps back, and the golden man passes.
- He steps forward, and he struggles to breathe, folded over in what seems to be his last moments on earth.
But how could he step back?
How would everyone see him from that moment on? Who is this skinny scrawny "boy" to strike fear
in this massive mountain of manhood!?
Shouldn’t the strong intimidate the weak? “How dare this boy make me afraid!”
Yet the bully knew that there was more to lose than his
reputation, or even his breath. In the
skinny boy’s eyes the bully saw a fury unlike any he had ever seen. He saw a fire that inevitably consumes its
fuel. He felt like ice in mid air before
landing in hot tea.
Something, or someone, behind the boy’s eyes made the bully
feel helpless.
But why?
The golden boy (who was really a man) didn’t strike the
bully as especially strong. Yet his body
looked plantedly agile, as if no one could move the “boy,” nor stop the boy
from moving.
This still didn’t capture the fear.
There was in the boy’s eyes the silent confidence of the
hawk before capture, the moment when the prey sees his end, the first time and
last time.
“I’ll let you pass…this time! Punk.”
The golden boy passed, and the bully felt like going home
and going to sleep. He breathed more
slowly, and wiping the sweat from his forehead, he thanked God, for saving his
life. (He thanked God for sparing his
life.)
And from that day forward, the bully made sure he would
never be the object of the Immortal Gaze’s anger. He now feared The One behind the “boy’s”
eyes.
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