"Thought you could run, huh?" A bulky figure sneered, looming over the tattered form of a small figure, lying helplessly on the floor, his black hair covered in dirt.
The thin figure's breath came in small gasps as he struggled to get back on his feet. He remained silent, his eyes fixed on the ground, but he didn't give the bullies the satisfaction of seeing him scared.
"I asked you a question!" The blonde-haired bully, who seemed to be the leader of the gang, grabbed him by the collar and lifted him off the ground, surrounded by his obedient minions as they chuckled at the sight before them. "Are you too good for us?"
The rest of the gang circled him, coming dangerously close to the boy with a dangerous look in their eyes.
The teenage boy could feel his heart racing, and he knew he was in serious trouble. Should he run? He thought, but that would be of no use; the grip around his shirt was firm, and even if he managed to break free, he was too weak to run. He would eventually be caught once again, and since they were twice his size, the outcome of the situation was not something he even wanted to think about.
"Fuck!" He cursed himself under his breath and let out a sigh in defeat. "I am not too good for anyone," he said forcefully, his voice low and shaking. "I just want to be left alone."
"Too bad," the bully said with an evil grin as he tightened the grip around his collar. "You are not going anywhere until we've had our fun."
Saying those words, the blonde-haired dude landed a blow to the boy's cheek, sending him reeling backwards. He landed hard on the ground, the air being knocked out of his lungs. He could taste blood in his mouth, his head spinning from the impact.
The bully's friends laughed and whooped in delight, as if this was some sort of game to them. The teenager coughed and tried to catch his breath, but it was hard to focus with the world spinning around him.
He could hear the bully's voice, taunting him. "What's the matter? Can't take a little hit?" The bully let out a mocking laugh.
"Please," he did the only thing he could do, pleading for mercy like the pathetic lowlife he was. His jaw clenched together, he could taste the metallic tang on his tongue. "You are right," he whispered. "I can't take a hit, I am not a fighter," he said, clutching his fingers into a tight fist.
"Aww…poor little fucker. Scared?" The bully sneered, enjoying the power he had over him. "Admit what you are, and maybe I would think of letting you go?" The bully taunted once again, his twisted grin spreading across his face.
Through his blurry vision, the teenage boy had his gaze fixed on the figure standing directly above him. If he had his knife on him, right now he would have stabbed this fucker in the eyes multiple times and watched him scream and beg for mercy. That would be so satisfying to witness, he thought, and he imagined the bully in pain with blood dripping down his face. The image in his head was so vivid, and without realizing it, a small smile curled the corners of his lips.
The bully's laughter faltered for a moment, a shiver running down his spine as he met the boy's unwavering gaze and smug smile. He felt a sinking feeling in his stomach as he stared back at him.
The boy's smile widened even further, and he began to laugh slowly, a low, maniacal cackle that rose in pitch and filled the dark alley. The bully and his friends stood frozen, staring in disbelief.
"What the hell is wrong with him?" one of the gang asked, his voice shaking as he took a frightened step back.
The boy's laughter continued, filling the air around them. The boy's laughter was so hard that tears began to stream down his face, but there was no sign of amusement. Instead, there was only madness.
"Die, you motherfucker!" he yelled, and with a sudden burst of speed, he leapt to his feet and out of nowhere, he pulled out a knife from behind him. Before the bullies could react, he lunged at them, stabbing them mercilessly in the face and chest. The bullies tried to fight back, but they were too shocked and scared to put up much of a resistance. One by one, they fell to the ground, their blood pooling around them. The boy stood over their bodies, breathing heavily, his eyes wild and unhinged. He looked down at his knife, slick with blood, and a smile crossed his face.
But as the adrenaline began to fade away, the boy suddenly gasped, and he jolted awake, his heart pounding in his chest as the realization hit him.
It was just a dream.
A twisted fantasy born from the depths of his tortured mind. And yet, here he was, lying battered and bruised in a cold alley from all the beatings he had received before he passed out from all the punches. He sat up slowly and looked at the scene around him. The alley was empty, and he was all alone. He looked down at his hands as if expecting to see them covered in blood, but they were clean, except for the bruises and cuts he had gotten earlier.
But when he tried to get up, he felt a searing pain that jolted through his leg, causing him to grit his teeth and stifle a groan. He glanced down, and his heart sank at the sight of his injured limb that had been severely broken. He tried to touch the leg, but the pain was too much to bear, causing him to withdraw his hand. He tried using the wall for support, but his hands trembled, and he ended up falling back on the ground.
"Fûck!" He sighed once again, brushing his fingers through his hair. "I really am a mess," he muttered to himself.