Beannachd Dia Dhuit

Thomas.

Aye, Thomas, never Tommy or Tom.

Thomas would take insult from anything. A raised eyebrow, a sloshed pint that wet his sleeve, an ill-timed cough.

Once he started to fight, there was naught anyone could do. Thomas would not stop, no matter how many times he was knocked down, and that was many. Though wiry, he was the the size of a wee boy. The men he fought were always bigger, and would quickly knock him down. Thomas would clamber to his feet, hurl himself shrieking until he was finally knocked unconscious.

His face bore the marks of every fist that beat him, every cosh and cudgel, thick scars shelving his eyebrows and thin ragged scars twisting his mouth into a smile that had no joy in it whatsoever, teeth missing or broken off ragged.

Thomas would nightly walk into the pub, his eyes scouring every face, searching  for a fight and usually finding one.

For Thomas, life was fighting. The rest was just waiting.

He’ll not be missed.

 

For the new prompt What Pegman Saw150 words based on Google Street View