The rotten flesh of a dead child can be smelled from a mile away, and the salty water of his mother’s tears can be tasted by many people within the radius of the mile. What crime did he commit? What such a crime that he was shot to death without so much as the movement of his killer’s hair? All of these questions run through my mind as I walk down the street carefully, so as not to trip on one of the many potholes in the road. I hear the typical whispers of gossipers, saying that the boy’s mother hasn’t moved from his murder scene in the past five days; they believe that she chose to die next to him through starving herself instead of living with her loose. While I’m hesitant to believe it, I know that it’s true; everybody knows that it’s …show more content…
I quickly regain my senses and punch my attacker behind the knee, stunning him or her long enough for me to tackle their body to the ground, grab their arms between my legs, and put them in a shoulder lock that could dislocate their shoulder. The person screams in agony at the pressure I apply to their shoulder, forcing me to use my left calf to cut off their air supply. After a good two minutes, I feel their body stop struggling against me, letting me know that I can release the person from the hold. I uncover the face to reveal that it’s a rather boney woman with short, choppy brown hair with hollow cheeks and a crooked nose, most likely from being broken a couple times in the past without medical attention. I check her pulse to make sure that she’s still alive and, while I’m at it, decide to look at her shoulder; it’s bruised horribly from the power of my legs, along with a bruised neck, but a pulse nonetheless. I get to my feet and drag her to the corner of an old shack and leave her bruised body with a note that reads Use a mixture of rubbing alcohol and water in a plastic bag and put it in a cold location; it doesn’t freeze and should help with the …show more content…
I respond with a hug of my own, and I start the traditional shaking that always follows after an attack. Sean rubs my back with his hands, telling me that it’s alright. I nod my head and pull out of his embrace to look at his face for reassurance. Sean has always been like a brother to me, and not the stupid and annoying kind, the kind that cares for me more than himself. He knows how often this happens to me and how it has always been a fight or flight response that takes over my system without my consent, sometimes resulting in the death of the attacker. Sean takes my hand and leads me to the street again, taking me somewhere without telling me where we’re going; I stay silent as we walk down another alley and through a doorway. The powerful smell of sweat and powder makes me want to vomit, but I hold it down for now. Sean lets go of my hand and takes off his jacket and mine, throws them into a locker, and leads me to the mat in the back of the room. He hands me my gloves and wrap, putting on his own as swiftly as me. Every other day, Sean teaches me how to properly defend myself from attackers by showing me things that his friend learned from teachers who work in the black market in return for his mother’s broken