This is my attempt at getting into the psyche of Fitz. The bully. The guy who destroys. The one everyone despises. This is my first time ever really getting into the mindset of a true bully, so I hope it does justice to the character. Please Read with an open mind. Though I have no intention of changing your opinion about Fitz, I do have the hope that maybe, just maybe, you'll see him in a different light.

The Mind of the Beast

It's Fitz, you goon.

It's not Mark, it's not Mr. Fitzgerald, and it's not Young Man.

It's just Fitz.

It has a certain…sharpness to it that's just like me. I'm like the pocket knife that I've had since I was eight and used when I got into my first gang fight deep in the back corner where the light barely reaches in my locker at school; people only see it creating one dreadful end. Death.

But if you put its brilliant blade up to the light, you see the different glimmers of it. You see how it's not just the tip that's sharp, but it's the grooved edge, too. The smooth side that catches your reflection and watches you intently. It's staring right back at you into your inner core.

Yeah, I got more sides than one.

The whole Fitz-will-kill-you thing is out of proportion. I haven't killed anyone. So why is it naturally assumed that I will? Because I'm in a gang? Hell no. If anything it's just a cover. They're just my safety. But, hey, I'm not about to change stereotypes. In fact, I embrace it. I am bully, hear me bash. Hear me hurt you. Hear. Me.

When I beat you up, Adam, do you hear me? When my large hands have grabbed your puny arms, pushed your thin and wimpish body against the cold wall with one sickening groan, and all you can feel is the warm breath I leave behind on your neck as I threaten in your girlish ear, do you hear me?

Because I'm telling you clearly, "I will fuck you up."

You listening?

You listen good.

My old man bashes me on occasion. Underneath all the layers of jacked-up clothing I five-finger-discounted, I have circles of blues, blacks, and sickish yellows. It's his way of talking to me. It's his way of saying, "It's because of you, you dumbass, that your mother is dead. It's because of you that our lives are shitty."

And as I hold you up against the wall, punk, do you hear me?

It's me telling you that I want you to be scared. I want you to fear me. Just like the way I fear my old man when he comes home late at night after hanging at the local bar swinging back one too many beers. Comes home with a slut at his side with barely any clothes on, fucks her in his room, and then leaves her only to come to mine and tell me once more with his fist:

I own you.

Just like I own you now, you loser.

Goth boy, my physical-abuse bag, Eli. When you approached me in your psychotically-fixed clothing of black standing there attempting to be as macho as me, were you ready for the worst pain of your life? When you attempt to verbally taunt me, did you expect to be met with the worst physical reaction that you will ever meet? And when you stand there seeking peace, do you expect to find it?

Take it as a lesson. There's no such thing as peace. Ask my Dad to stop hitting and he only hits harder. Ask him to love you and he only hates you more.

I kick you where it hurts because I can. Tell me, how much did you feel it?

You must have felt it's full angry force. I saw the way your body keeled over like some wimp and fall into the laps of none other than her.

Her.

She was the first one to genuinely smile at me since my Grandmother visited me for the last time when I was twelve. The way her pink lips parted showing her white teeth as beautiful as the pearls Bianca stole from a second-hand store for laughs last Saturday. Her curly and short hair catching the sun, giving her that golden halo of the angels that were painted on the church I went to when my Grandmother keeled over and laid to rest in her casket.

Her body was always covered fully (it was definitely a change from the sluts my Dad brought home who exposed themselves nearly to the point of nudity with every skimpy outfit they wore). And I liked it. She was my personal and silent temptress.

The girl who lured me into my hatred of schooling. The girl who impressed me so confoundedly with her brilliancy. I'll be smart for her. I'll do it by playing dumb for her. And I'll have her tutor me. Because any moment with this girl is one that juxtaposes all the other shitty ones I've had.

She'll lead me to my death because school just sucks ass.

She's my Siren standing next to the cliff and I'm about to jump off just for her if she'll only do one thing for me.

Go to the dance.

My Siren. Dance. With me.

Because all I really want to do is get the chance to be with her. Get the chance to spend at least one moment with this girl who has wound up myself into a greater morality than I've had in years. When was the last time I acknowledged the existence of the angels that so heavenly graced my life?

Alright, I'll be straight up. My new-found morality isn't much. It's like the amount of butter I place on my popcorn at the movies last weekend when I snuck into Gang Revolt 2 with Owen. I had only one small squirt of that chemical death on it until I ripped it away from the clutches of a fearful Wesley-nerd who had bought it for himself. But I claimed it as my own.

I really just want to violate her.

Take all the goodness in the world and show her that the world isn't fucking light. The world isn't a place for right and wrong; it's a place meant only for sinners.

Can you keep up with me, Siren? Can you walk among those who have already died inside?

I'll push you up against the wall and force one harsh kiss on your perfect lips and put my knife against your throat. You'll see the knife and know that I'm only meant for one thing:

Death.

And your emotions will die inside as you realize how I'm going to ravish all your goodness away from you. And when Adam...When Eli isn't there for you, you'll become just like me.

You'll die inside and you'll walk among me.

You'll hate and you'll hate well.

But that doesn't matter because I'll finally own the Siren.

I'll own you, Clare Edwards.

I'll leave a bruise on your arm as you struggle underneath my chest. I'll give you a gift that my father gives me often. I'll show my father that I am powerful regardless of how powerless he makes me feel. I'll show him just how manly I can be.

I am man. I am bully. I am Fitz.

Now fuck off.

END.

I thank you deeply for reading. Please Review. If you really enjoyed this, check out some of my other work. Maybe you'll enjoy something else even more.