Beat Your Heart Out

“It’s not like you really have anything to lose,” Fletcher, a red onion of heavier build, said menacingly to his small wild onion counterpart, known as Cebolla. “Your mom’s a whore, and your dad…” he trailed off enough to get a small chuckle in here before continuing, “Well, we’ll just leave it at that.”
Cebolla McCrea had found himself talking to Fletcher for the first time that day, a conversation he would come to regret having. Up until this point, Cebolla had tried to avoid the company of the big red onion. Though both were practically in the same boat fortune wise, their histories were quite different. Both of them lived in the meaner side of Glutenton, and often broke laws to help their survival. However, when it came to the viciousness of said crime, Fletcher was known to be rather dangerous. He was almost mafia like, and would harm several people to get his way. Cebolla simply stole or whatever it was he needed to do to survive, and nothing more. It was this reason that one onion had approached the other this day, and how this conversation had started in the first place.  
Fletcher had previously found himself low on cash. When earning it honestly came to most minds first, this idea never phased his. Stealing had always been his way, and he was determined to keep it that way.  Unfortunately, his reputation made it quite impossible for him to even come near a place of business without security tightening. To put up such a fight wouldn’t be worth his time. That was, unless someone else did the fighting for him.  Unfortunately for Cebolla that day, that someone else just happened to be him.
“Why should I do anything for you?” Cebolla refused to give in to the larger onions demands. “You garden variety races have never been one to treat my kind very well, let alone associate with one.”
“Now that’s stereo-typing,” Fletcher said in his defense, not that he really meant any of it. “I’m not above making a deal with anyone. So long as they have what I need, that is. And you, my “friend”, just happen to have what I need.”
“I’m aware of you style of “bargaining”, Fletcher,” Cebolla said bluntly, “and you seem to always be the one profiting from it.”
“I already toldja you’d get your share of the money,” Fletcher said, putting a heavy arm around Cebolla’s shoulders in false friendliness. “What more do you wanna hear?”
“I don’t wanna hear anything,” Cebolla said, eyeing the huge hand on his shoulder that seemed to slowly tighten its grip. “I just wanna know that that promise can be fulfilled, and you aren’t the most trustworthy.”
Fletcher’s friendly embrace abruptly turned violent as he tightened his grip around Cebolla, pulling him closer and pinning his arms to his side. Now with the smaller onion unable to leave his presence he hissed angrily, “Listen, I’m giving you a chance to profit equally! Now, you can take the offer and hope for the best, or we can try this bargain a different way. You DO realize that I can make your life a living Hell for you if you refuse, right?”
Cebolla stared back at the red onion hatefully, refusing to answer. Pulling a sinister smile on his face to further tease his captive, Fletcher added, “Well, more a living Hell than it already is…”
After a moment of hostile silence, Cebolla finally answered, “Like I really have a choice?”
“Then you’ll do it?” Fletcher said, his evil smile still playing on his face.
“As long as the previous offer still stands,” Cebolla said, still staring madly into the larger onion’s evil green eyes. “However trustworthy that offer may be…”
“Good,” was all Fletcher had to answer, letting Cebolla free of his strong grip and pushing him down.
Cebolla sat on the ground where he fell and watched as Fletcher walked away. After his deal with the intimidator today, he would never again find himself in his presence. He would make sure of that. Once the large red onion was out of his sight, he began to ponder on the task at hand. Getting caught was not an option, and he had never stolen money itself before.  It had always been goods, things they never locked up and kept secure. He decided that a street side vendor would be the best place to go for…

Cebolla panted heavily as he ran, the money stashed in a plastic bag grasped desperately in his bony hands. The vendor had been of stronger will than he had imagined, and there were far more witnesses than he had bargained for. Now the whole lot was after him, and it was only a matter of time before they caught up. He couldn’t get caught, he just couldn’t. There were harsh consequences for stealing, and he knew that Fletcher wouldn’t take failure lightly. With double punishment promised for his capture, his persistence to stay out of justice’s hands was great. He tried to quicken his pace, but he was already running as fast as he could go.  
Finally, his chest feeling as though it would explode at any moment, he had to slow down. He could hear them catching up now, their angry shouts becoming more and more coherent by the second. He grew terribly frightened now. He had to find a place to hide, and fast. Seeing only a  nearby car, he got down on his stomach and wedged himself underneath it, clutching the bag of money to his chest. He tried to keep his sharp breaths of fear silent as the crowd approached his desperate refuge.
He licked his dry lips nervously as he saw feet around the car, and heard the voices of the mob. There was many a “Where did he go?” and “He can’t be too far!” as the feet paced around his hiding place. His heart, which had previously felt as though it were in his throat, dropped as the vendor himself suggested, “All that’s here is this car!”
The crowd then gathered around the car looking inside of it for any traces of the small onion. Finally, the vendor stooped down to look underneath it…
They both gasped as their eyes met, the vendor shouting soon after, “He’s underneath it! He’s underneath the car!”
Suddenly, there were hands of many different foods reaching underneath, trying to grab Cebolla. As he was already wedged underneath the car pretty tightly, he found it hard to maneuver around their violent grasps. Twisting and turning best he could, he was able to avoid anyone grabbing him for a bit. Finally, a strong hand found itself around his ankle. Letting go of the money bag for the first time since he had obtained it, he clawed the ground as he was pulled free from his hiding place and hoisted upside down in the air by his captor.
“Gotcha now, you little thief!” a huge ham said, still holding the onion by his scrawny ankle. “Unfortunately for you, I work for the empire, and I’ve got just the place for a person like you…”

Cebolla moved his head best he could to avoid getting hit by a rock that was thrown at him. He then winced as a second rock that he was unaware of hit him above his left eye. The crowd was now taking absolute advantage of him being locked in a pillory, and was shamelessly adding to his punishment. He used to wonder why such a modern empire had kept such antique methods of punishment around, but he was now beginning to see first hand that they were still quite effective. He cried out as an empty can came unexpectedly across his face…

It wasn’t until later that night that Fletcher showed up again to visit Cebolla, who was still locked in his restraints. The smaller onion lifted his head from the wooden board around his neck to meet Fletcher’s sinister eyes. With a heavy sigh he said, “I KNEW I shouldn’t have worked for you.”  
“Cebolla! How could you have failed me?” Fletcher said, totally ignoring his statement. “You were supposed to be the best in the thievery field around here!”
“Yeah, thievery of necessary goods!” Cebolla spat at him angrily. “I never said I had stolen money before. You know there’s a difference when it comes down to WHAT you steal!”
“That may be,” Fletcher said, “but now you have not only failed me, but made security a little tighter around here! What am I to do now?”
“Get an honest job,” Cebolla growled bluntly.
“You know as well as I that no one would take the likes of us!” Fletcher said, pulling his face close to Cebolla’s. Cebolla tried his best to wiggle his head away from the nicotine infested smell of Fletcher’s breath, but hardly succeeded.  “That’s why you stoop as low as you do, isn’t it? Because you‘re certainly no good at this on your own!”
“It’s not a matter of how good I am at lowness,” Cebolla said defiantly, “it’s a matter of me having higher principles than you do!”
“Is that so?” Fletcher said, now very agitated at the smaller onion locked up before him. “Well, if you think you’re so high and mighty, how about we cut you down a few pegs?”
Reaching into his back pocket, Fletcher produced a small pocket knife. As he opened it, he leaned down to be at level with Cebolla’s face. Knowing what was about to happen, Cebolla began to fight his restraints with little progress being made. He was only able to close his eyes just before Fletcher made his strike.  With a quick downward motion, Fletcher’s knife tore through the right side of Cebolla’s face barely missing his actual eye. The young onion let out a scream of pain as his fresh wound began to produce warm, sticky, green blood.
“Heh, heh, that’ll teach ya!” the bigger onion laughed in his now injured face. “Whenever you look in a mirror, whenever a person looks you in the eye, whenever you stand before an important figure and present your face to them, you’ll be reminded of this day!”
Not bothering to clean the blood from it, he closed the knife up and pocketed it before turning away to leave. Cebolla let out another scream, it being a mixture of pain and anger, unable to coherently yell at Fletcher as he grew out of his now impaired sight.

It wasn’t until two days later that Cebolla was freed from his uncomfortable, immobile prison. He had suffered immensely throughout his short time in it. He was weak from hunger, and a bit dehydrated from lack of water. It was also now that he was beginning to feel slightly ill from his face wound as well. Between the fact that Fletcher clearly never cleaned his utensil of pain,  and the fact that Cebolla had been unable to clean the gash, it had become quite infected. Pulling himself up as best he could, Cebolla stumbled blindly through the streets, hardly able to walk, trying his best to get away from the horrid device as possible.  
He found himself having to frequently prop up on several walls as he made his way back to a decent place to rest. After many horrible, fumbling steps and swayed movements, Cebolla’s body could handle no more. With one last awkward, weak step, Cebolla collapsed to the ground.  He lay there for a moment, still conscious, deciding on what to do now. Was it possible that he was to die here? He certainly felt as though this moment would most likely be his last.
In desperation, he glanced upward. Before him was a sight he’d never forget. There, in all its tall glory, was a huge church. Its stained-glass windows shown beautifully in the sun, all the while a big golden pyramid gleamed proudly from the top of its roof. It was a most breathtaking sight to behold. Surely, this was a sign meant for him.
Getting on his hands and knees, unable to stand, he crawled over toward its large wooden door. As it came closer to his grasp, he fell once again. Now using only his arms to pull himself, he struggled to get up its small case of stairs. Finally, painfully, he made it to the door and lay there. Taking all the strength left in his body, he pounded on the door as hard as he could. The last thing he saw was a tall radish priest answer the door. That’s when his world faded.

He awoke a bit later to find himself in a bed, his right side of his face cleaned and bandaged. He looked around a little, still too weak to move very well. The radish priest came into his sight once again from a nearby door. With a smile on his face, the priest said, “Well, it seems as though you’ve awakened. Which is quite good…I was worried that you might not have woken up ever again.”
Cebolla stared at him for a bit, too asleep still yet to really say anything. Subconsciously he had to agree though. He himself thought that he had died. Yet, here he was, now conscious and being taken care of by an absolute stranger. He tried to pull himself up a little bit so as to sit up.
“Take it easy, boy!” the priest laughed. “You don’t wanna move around too much just yet, you’re pretty messed up. You’ve got a dangerously high fever going on there. I imagine it‘s due to that nasty cut on your face…”
After a moment of awkward silence between the two, he added, “By the way, my name is Waldron. By any chance are you well enough to tell me your name?”  
Cebolla thought for a second, his mind starting to function a little clearer now. After thinking about his reputation, telling his name to such a holy figure was almost embarrassing. He was sure that the priest would think lesser of him. Finally he decided to revel the lesser known half of his name, “McCrea.”
“McCrea, huh?” Waldron said cheerfully. “I don’t hear that name much. It must be nice to have a name that’s not so overused.”
McCrea, as was to become his permanent title, stayed quiet at this. He wasn’t aware of hearing the name “Waldron” too frequently either, but decided to keep it to himself. Still tired, he laid over on his side, his back turned to Waldron, refusing to speak further. Realizing that McCrea was still too ill to be bothered, Waldron decided not to press further. A smile still on his face, relieved that his new found company had not slipped away on him, he turned to leave.  Before he could completely get out of the room, however, McCrea decided to add in a quick, “Thanks.”
“Quite welcome,” Waldron said as he shut the door behind him.

McCrea wandered out of his bedroom for the first time in what felt like a month to do something other than perform a life-sustaining function, such as eating. Looking around he soon found the man that he was looking for. Noticing that  McCrea was finally moving about strongly, Waldron said, “You finally seem to be doing better!”
“So…how long has it been?” McCrea asked him. “How long has it been since…I was out there?”
“About two weeks,” Waldron said, “and let me tell you, you’re quite the fighter. You must have some will to live in that body.”
“I’m almost afraid to go back out there,” McCrea admitted. “Will to live or not.”
“It’ll come all in due time,” Waldron said softly. “It seems as though you’ve become chattier as well.”
“Yeah…” McCrea agreed, starting to feel pleased at this fact. He hadn’t felt like doing much of anything up until this point. He had previously been unaware as to how often he took speech for granted.
“If I may ask,” Waldron started. “Now that you’re feeling better, might you tell me your whole name?”
He hesitated for a moment, then decided that he couldn’t keep his name a secret forever. With a little sigh he said quietly, “Cebolla McCrea.”
Instead of changing his behavior to negativity as McCrea was sure he would, Waldron instead said, “That’s quite a unique name all around! Your mother must have been very creative.”
To avoid the fact that his mother was one of the least things he wanted to hear about, McCrea decided to look about the room. He was just now really becoming aware of his surroundings. He said solemnly, “I haven’t really been well enough to notice this place was so powerful…”
Suddenly, his eyes came across a mirror hung up on a wall. That’s when he noticed it. He put his hand up to his face to examine it. While his wound had healed up rather nicely, it now had become quite a horrific scar that took up the majority of his right side of his face. One big nasty slash, just as it had felt. He almost felt a twinge of pain in remembrance.
“It was that thing that nearly killed you, I think,” Waldron said as he noticed McCrea’s reactions. “Luckily, it didn’t come out half as bad as I thought it would. You are able to see out of that eye, aren‘t you?”
“…Yeah,” McCrea said after a moment of hesitation. He really didn’t want to leave his sanctuary now…
He turned to Waldron. Seeing his long priestly robe, his dignified figure, McCrea got an idea. Quietly, he said, “Waldron? I would like to know…how does one…become a priest?”