[Writing Entry #6]

Early summer, 2014

Boston at night. In a pitch black alley.

Joe thought he could slip on through and get back to the very car he had lived in. But it would be one of the worst decisions he had made in his life. Tucking his duffel bag under his arm as if to hug it, he had just gotten done running an errand for food. Canned food. It was all he could afford at the moment, but it kept his appetite happy. Distant traffic could be heard, but his surroundings were silent. And it was the kind of soundless atmosphere that sent a chill down the twenty six year old man’s spine. Halting in the middle of the alleyway, the male listened in. Tightening his arms that coiled his bag, he was not sure what to expect. Most likely, a mugging he had dealt with a few before and fight off muggers but there is a first time for everything.
Snapping his head towards the sound of someone climbing out of the closed dumpster beside him, Joe whacked the man in the head with his heavy bag, only to be tackled from behind. Collided into the dirty steel object in front of him, his chest struck its edge, knocking all of the wind from out of his lungs. Emerging out, the first thug had drawn the homemade blade he had made from broken glass.
“Soooo… what’s in the bag, cunt?” He asked, forcing his foot on Joe’s neck, who could barely stop his foot with his hands as he struggled to catch his breath. His forehead became clammy as if he did not reek enough already. Staring into the light blue orbs of his assaulter, a foot to the side of the head came from the other man, which causes a temporary ringing in Joe’s ears, scarcely hearing a word he was going to say next. “Well, we’ll see for ourselves. We know about you, faggot. You won’t be streetfightin’ after this. And you’ll die out here. All alone. And no one will care.” Gesturing towards his accomplice, the man had kept his boot on Joe’s neck while the other screwed his heel into Joe’s right hand. Howling so loud, he failed to hear a bone snap in his hand, but he could feel it. A rubber sole met his chin before he was picked up to his feet and arms were coiled around his own to render him defenseless. The windows of the armed thug were as pale as ice. Hitting Joe as if he were a heavy bag, what seemed to last forever was only two minutes, before they heard a voice at the end of the alley.
“Who’s down there?? This is the Boston police!!” An officer had called out. Dropping Joe and snatching up his bag, the two punks had darted off with Joe’s bag of provisions silently, slinking away from the crime scene. Face down on the ground and bloodied, all Joe could think about was dying on the concrete. It hurt to breathe. Or even stretch a muscle. His hand was broken, a few of his ribs were fractured, he was a wounded animal that was not about to give up surviving. Hearing footsteps disappear into the distance, he had figured the police officer was gone. Anything was better than jail to Joe. Even death. And thankfully, the hand that was broken was his guitar pick hand, which in his opinion, was not a concern. Feeling nauseous from taking so many shots to the body, he regurgitated on the ground, wiping the drool away with the back of his hand. Lifting himself up onto his feet with his left hand, he had no other choice. Move in with his abusive ex, or die in the streets.
Heart this
0 | Jul 11th 2019 14:51