"Kid... Hey, kid, wake up. Are you alright?"
The words echoed through the boy's mind, a voice filled with concern cutting through the haze. "Those troublemakers didn't know what hit them when they decided to mess with a little kid," the voice continued. "Can you hear me?"
Groggily, the boy blinked his eyes open, his body aching as he tried to sit up. A stranger knelt beside him, helping him steady himself. As the boy came to his senses, he realized he had been knocked unconscious, his exhaustion only making it worse. The men who attacked him were gone, the eerie silence making it clear.
His gaze slowly shifted to the stranger, a man who appeared to have intervened. "Are you okay, kid?" the man asked, his voice gentle, yet full of concern.
The boy nodded, though hesitantly, which prompted a soft smile from the man. "Grand," he said, though his smile faded as he continued. "I can't believe they did that to you. I had to threaten to report them for child abuse before they backed off. Rascals, the lot of them."
The boy took a moment to really look at the man who had saved him. His rescuer was dressed in tattered clothes, not unlike the men who attacked him. He was thin, with a scraggly beard and a worn-out hat that sat awkwardly on his head. It was clear the man didn't have much, yet his concern for the boy seemed genuine.
"So... what exactly are you doing here, kid?" the man asked after a moment, his curiosity mixing with empathy.
The boy shifted awkwardly, trying to find the right words. His throat felt dry, and it took him a moment before he could answer. "I... ran away," he stammered. "From home."
The man's eyes widened with surprise, clearly not expecting such an answer. "Is that so?" he questioned, trying to make sense of the boy's words.
A heavy silence fell between them as the man pondered what to do. The boy's situation sounded serious, but something about him made it impossible for the man to doubt him.
"You got a name?" the man finally asked, breaking the quiet.
The boy hesitated, then shook his head. "Father said names are only for people that matter."
The man winced at that, his expression twisting in discomfort. "Yikes," he muttered. "I'm starting to see why you ran away."
He thought for a moment longer before introducing himself. "Well, I'm Oscar," he said, then smirked. "But folks around here call me Scraggy."
Oscar, or Scraggy, studied the boy for a moment, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "You look a little small, huh? How old are you?"
The boy took a few seconds, glancing at his hands as if trying to remember something his mother had taught him about ages. "Eleven... I think," he finally said.
"Eleven, huh," Oscar mused, scratching his beard. "Well, since you're young, and you managed to sneak away from home..." His eyes brightened as an idea came to him. "That's it. I'll call you Mouse."
The boy blinked in confusion. "Mouse?" he questioned for a moment before a smile etched on his face shortly. "Is that... my real name?"
Oscar chuckled awkwardly. "Well... not exactly," he admitted. "But it's your new nickname. Just something to call you for now."
"Nick?" the boy asked, his confusion deepening.
Oscar's smile softened as the pieces clicked together. "Your education hasn't been the best, huh?" he remarked gently. "But don't worry, kid. Your old buddy Scraggy will teach you everything you need to know."
The boy's face lit up with a hopeful smile, feeling a sense of relief wash over him. At that moment, Oscar felt a surge of concern for him. He didn't know why, but he felt compelled to help this boy, to protect him.
From that point on, the boy began living with Oscar, who was also homeless but had managed to carve out a small existence in the area. Oscar had a modest tent set up near the place where they first met. Despite being homeless for several years, Oscar had figured out how to keep himself safe and alive after losing everything.
As they grew closer, Oscar opened up about his past. He explained that he used to be a rights activist, organizing protests and advocating for people who needed help. But after making some poor decisions, he strayed from his path and eventually lost everything. He viewed his current situation as karma, something he accepted, but it didn't destroy his spirit.
Oscar was always cheerful, greeting each day with a positive attitude. He treated the boy not just as a companion, but like a close friend. With the time they had together, Oscar took it upon himself to teach the boy basic English, helping him understand words he had struggled with before.
Aside from learning, they worked together to survive. Most of their food came from the leftovers of a local restaurant where Oscar was friendly with the owner. Sometimes, Oscar would volunteer as an unpaid janitor to show his gratitude.
Oscar also rummaged through dumpsters now and then, always finding things others had discarded. "It's not ideal," he admitted, climbing out of one. "But it's better than the alternatives."
"Stealing's what a lot of folks around here do," Oscar said, brushing off some dirt. "But that's not for me. I can't throw away the little dignity I have left."
The boy didn't mind this at all. In fact, he admired Oscar's moral stance, preferring the idea of survival without stealing. Oscar was glad to see that the boy wasn't bothered by their hard life and, even more, that the boy shared his values. It showed the goodness in him despite everything.
Months passed, and they grew comfortable with each other. One day, Oscar went to volunteer as a janitor again, hoping to gather food for the week. The boy stayed behind in the tent, focused on his studies, determined to master his vocabulary.
As he lay down with his book, taking mental notes, he suddenly heard a rumbling sound outside the tent. He paused, cautious, and decided to investigate. When he stepped outside, he saw three men standing there. They were the same homeless men he had encountered when he first arrived.
"Well, well," one of them sneered, a taunting smile on his face. "If it isn't the brat who ate my food."
"So, you've been shacking up with ol' Scraggy, huh?" another one chimed in, his tone arrogant. "Bet you think he's some saint, just cuz he's too scared to get some real food."
The boy stayed silent, uneasy in their presence. He wasn't fond of them and still wasn't used to multiple people paying attention to him at once. But he tried to push past his discomfort.
"He is a good person," the boy mumbled, barely loud enough for them to hear. "That's why he won't steal from others."
The men were taken aback by the boy's words, caught off-guard by his small voice. But after a few seconds of stunned silence, they broke into laughter.
One of the men slung his arm around the boy's shoulder, still laughing. "You little fool," he chuckled, staring at the boy with amusement. "You think the world cares about 'good' people?"
His expression softened slightly as he continued. "You ain't special, kid. No more special than any of us."
The boy didn't respond, unable to find the words. After their laughter died down, one of the men stepped forward, addressing him again.
"By the way," the man said, his voice dropping to a sly tone, "ya still owe me for eating my food, don't ya?"
"That's right," confirmed the man with his arm around the boy.
The first man took another step closer, watching the boy's growing unease. "But don't worry," he said with a sudden smile. "All ya gotta do is a little something for me, and we'll call it even."
The boy's eyes widened with a glimmer of hope. "R-Really?" he stammered, eager to atone for his mistake.
The boy walked into a small convenience store at a gas station, his steps hesitant and his heart pounding. His face showed clear signs of nervousness as he ventured further inside. He felt out of place, but he knew he had to do this. It was the only way to make amends for eating the other man's food. All he had to do was ask the person at the counter a few questions.
He hurried toward the man behind the counter, trying to push his anxiety aside. His voice trembled slightly, but he did his best to follow the instructions he had been given.
The man behind the counter, noticing the boy's shabby clothes and anxious demeanor, seemed puzzled. It was clear the boy wasn't from a privileged background, but the cashier wasn't bothered by him. He answered the boy's questions patiently, without any hint of hostility.
Then, out of nowhere, three men burst into the store. Their faces were hidden behind masks, and they carried guns, moving with urgency. The boy froze as fear washed over him. He didn't fully grasp what was happening until one of the men shoved him aside. That's when it hit him; the three men were the same ones who had sent him to the store in the first place. They had used him as bait, sending him in first to lower the cashier's guard before robbing the place.
The cashier raised his hands, complying as the men demanded the money in the register. One of them grew impatient when the cashier hesitated, stepping forward and pointing his gun directly at the man, threatening to shoot if he didn't move faster.
In that instant, guilt surged through the boy, and without thinking, he lunged at the man threatening to pull the trigger. He clung to him tightly, eyes shut, his small arms wrapped around the man in desperation.
"Stop!" the boy cried out, his voice breaking the tense silence.
The man tried to shake him off but couldn't dislodge him. "Do you wanna die, kid?" he snarled, glaring down in frustration.
"Why?" the boy whispered, his voice barely audible at first. Then louder, he asked, "Why are you doing this? Why did you use me for something so bad?"
The cashier, still holding his hands up, looked at the boy with shock and concern. "Careful, kid," he warned, worried for the boy's safety.
The other two robbers turned to their accomplice, visibly irritated. "Let 'im go, ya fool," one of them barked. "Unless ya want a bullet in ya head."
But the boy didn't back down. "I won't!" he shouted, squeezing his eyes shut even tighter, his grip not loosening.
"You think this is funny, kid?" the man holding the gun growled, anger rising in his voice.
"No," the boy responded without hesitation. "But I caused all this, so I have to take accountage for it."
One of the robbers blinked in confusion. "Accountage?" he repeated, before bursting into laughter. The others joined in, laughing at the boy's mispronunciation, their amusement cutting through the tense atmosphere.
"Hey, Lefty, shoot this idiot if he don't let go!" one of the men said, grinning as he wiped tears from his eyes after laughing.
Despite the threats, the boy remained steadfast. He didn't budge. No amount of fear, no amount of danger, would make him let go.
"Hey, kid," the man holding the gun said, his voice lower and more dangerous now. "This is your last chance. Let go."
The boy tightened his grip in response, his heart pounding in his chest but his resolve unshaken.
"Blast 'im already, Lefty!" another robber shouted, his bravado faltering as he realized their threats weren't working.
The man aimed his gun at the boy's head, frustration and rage simmering beneath his mask. "I'm gonna shoot you, you stupid kid," he growled. "Let go of me, now."
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But the boy remained silent, squeezing tighter.
"Do you want to die, you dumbass?" the man screamed, his voice trembling with fury. He cocked the gun, bringing it closer to the boy's head, causing his accomplices to flinch.
Suddenly, before anything else could unfold, a voice from the entrance grabbed everyone's attention.
"Drop your weapons and put your hands where I can see them."
The robbers turned toward the door, their faces filled with shock. A squad of police officers had swarmed the gas station, guns drawn, and more cars pulling up outside. The officers demanded the men step away from the boy and surrender their weapons. The robbers exchanged defeated glances before complying, slowly lowering their guns to the ground.
"Down on your knees, now!" another officer barked, and the robbers obeyed, dropping to their knees in submission.
One of the officers cautiously approached and pulled the boy away from the scene. The boy's breath came in shallow gasps, his heart still racing with fear. As he looked back, one of the robbers, the one he had held onto, glared at him, eyes full of anger and accusation.
"This is your fault," the man muttered through clenched teeth.
The boy didn't say a word, his expression frozen, as the officer led him to safety.
After what felt like hours, Oscar finally arrived, having rushed over as soon as he heard what had happened. He spotted the boy sitting in the back of a police car, an officer keeping watch over him.
"Officer," Oscar called out, his voice laced with worry. "Is he okay?"
The officer gave a reassuring nod. "He's fine," he said. "Though, maybe a bit too brave for his own good, if you ask me."
Oscar let out a relieved sigh, a smile breaking across his face. "That's grand," he said, easing up as the tension in his body melted away.
The police, curious about the boy's background and where his parents were, began asking questions after the situation. But the boy simply told them that he lived with Oscar, deliberately not mentioning his flee from home. After a brief description, one of the officers recognized who Oscar was. The officer knew him as Scraggy, a familiar and friendly face around the area. Because of this, he decided to wait with the boy until Oscar arrived to take him home.
Oscar gave the boy a stern talking-to, scolding him for listening to the three men and getting involved in such a dangerous situation. But once the boy explained everything, Oscar found it hard to blame him completely. He understood how easily a child could be manipulated, especially by people they thought they owed something to.
In the aftermath of the incident, the three robbers were sent to prison for armed robbery. With them out of the picture, life for Oscar and the boy became much simpler. The two of them grew even closer, their bond more like that of a father and son. Together, they worked hard to survive, relying on each other in the harsh conditions they lived in.
The boy became skilled at scavenging and even more adept at hunting small animals like rats and squirrels. His strange ability to hunt, as well as Oscar's continued volunteerism at the restaurant, kept them well-fed, without the need to steal from others.
Oscar continued to teach him English, and the boy's curiosity for learning grew as he also learned by himself. He found discarded novels and textbooks during his dumpster dives, and every day, he studied them diligently.
As the years passed, the boy's education flourished, becoming remarkable for someone in his circumstances; even over those who weren't. By the time he turned fourteen, his knowledge far surpassed what anyone would expect from a child living on the streets. His hunting skills also improved, and he started selling his catches to the other struggling people in the area. This earned him not only supplies but also friends and a sense of belonging. Because of this, he gradually overcame the anxiety he once felt around others, a change he was deeply proud of.
One day, after a long day of hunting around the city, the boy returned home with a wide grin on his face. Over his shoulder hung a large bunch of squirrels and rats, more than he'd ever caught in one go.
"We won't be famished for almost a week with all this," he said, beaming with pride as he approached their tent, eager to show off his successful hunt to Oscar.
As the boy returned to the tent, a calm smile lingered on his face. "Hey, Oscar," he called out, his voice light. "You wouldn't believe how many..."
But the moment he fully stepped inside, his words died on his lips. His eyes widened in horror as the bundle of animals slipped from his grasp, thudding to the ground. Frozen in place, he stared at the scene before him; Oscar, lying motionless on the floor, riddled with bullets across his chest.
The blood pooling around Oscar's body was already drying, the dark stains telling the boy all he needed to know. Oscar had been dead for a while. A strangled cry escaped his throat as tears welled up, blurring his vision.
"Oscar?" he called, his voice trembling. "Oscar!"
He knelt beside him, desperately reaching out, but couldn't bring himself to touch the wounds. His heart pounded in his chest as grief consumed him. "No," he whimpered, his sobs uncontrollable, the disbelief of the moment suffocating him.
Later that evening, after a few other homeless people who had been drawn by his cries called for help, a small medical team arrived from a nearby clinic. But there was nothing they could do. The boy sat in stunned silence as they tended to Oscar's body, his mind unable to grasp the cruel reality.
How could this happen? Oscar had been fine just that morning, laughing and talking like any other day. They had never hidden anything from each other, so who could possibly want to harm him? The thought of Oscar having enemies also seemed unfathomable.
As the boy sat there, staring blankly at the ground, one of the homeless men who had befriended him approached, his face heavy with sorrow. "I'm so sorry, Mouse," he said quietly, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Scraggy was a good man. You don't meet many like him around here."
The boy didn't respond right away. After several moments of silence, he finally spoke, his voice barely a whisper. "I just don't understand… why would anyone do this to him?"
The man sighed, the weight of the world visible in his eyes. They sat in silence for what felt like an eternity before something seemed to click in the man's mind.
"Though," the man said, his voice low, as if piecing it together himself, "I heard those three scumbags across the bridge who robbed some place a few years back got out of prison last week."
The boy's heart sank. His eyes shot up to meet the man's, wide with a new sense of dread. "You mean... the ones who robbed the convenience store?"
"Yeah," the man confirmed, his tone grim. "Those guys."
For the first time, a wave of rage washed over the boy, twisting his grief into something darker. His hands clenched into fists as his body trembled. "They killed him," he thought, fury burning deep inside.
Without saying another word, the boy stood up, his face hardening with anger. He walked away in silence, his mind filled with only one thought; Rage.
As the sun sank below the horizon, night settled in, casting long shadows over the city. In a shabby tent tucked away behind a cluster of buildings, two homeless men sat hunched over, eyes glued to the flickering screen of a small television. These were the same two men who had recently been released from prison, trying to find some semblance of normalcy in their lives.
The air inside the tent was thick with silence, broken only by the occasional hum of static from the television. Suddenly, one of the men stiffened, his eyes catching movement outside. A shadow flitted past the tent. His brow furrowed in confusion, and he nudged his companion.
"Go check that out," he muttered, his voice low.
"Why me?" the second man asked, clearly unenthused.
"Because I don't want to," the first one shot back lazily, not taking his eyes off the screen.
With a frustrated sigh, the second man grumbled as he pushed himself to his feet and stepped outside. He scanned the dimly lit surroundings, seeing nothing out of place. Just as he was about to turn back inside, his eyes met a figure that stood behind him. Startled, the man flinched but then quickly relaxed when he recognized it was the boy standing silently before him.
"Oh, it's just you, Mouse," the man said before growing a taunting smirk. "You've grown since we last..."
But his sentence was cut short by a sudden, brutal right hook to his face. The boy's fist connected with deadly force, nearly knocking the man unconscious in one strike. He stumbled back, dazed and barely comprehending what had just happened.
The sound of the impact drew the other man from the tent. He stepped out to find the boy raining down a series of vicious punches on his companion who lay on the ground, each hit landing with ferocity, driving the man into unconsciousness.
"What the hell?!" the second man shouted, rushing toward the boy in bewildered anger. He swung wildly, fists flying in confused rage, but the boy dodged every strike with an almost supernatural ease. His movements were smooth, and instinctive, like he knew exactly where the blows would come from.
Before the man could recover from his failed attempts, the boy went on the offensive. He lashed out with a sharp punch to the man's jaw, sending a shock of pain coursing through his body. Another punch followed, then another, each one landing with precision and power. The man's head spun, his vision blurring as if he were being struck by a steel bat. Within moments, he was on the ground, gasping for breath.
"A kid... a mere kid..." he thought in disbelief. "How's he causing this much pain?"
The boy grabbed him by the throat, holding him firmly on the ground. His grip was unrelenting, his eyes filled with a blazing fury. "You killed him," the boy hissed, his voice cold and unfamiliar, as if the anger had transformed him.
The man's hands scrambled to free himself, choking under the boy's iron grip. Confusion clouded his thoughts as he struggled to understand what the boy meant. And then, it clicked.
"W-Wait!" the man choked out, barely able to speak.
But the boy wasn't listening. His rage consumed him as he tightened his hold, the man's face turning pale as he fought for air. Just then, a voice came from behind.
"We didn't do it, I swear!"
The boy's head snapped around to see the first man he had knocked down slowly regaining consciousness. The man sat up weakly, clutching his bruised face, his voice hoarse.
"It was Lefty," he continued, coughing between words. "He was the one... he's been hooked on revenge ever since we went to prison. Said he was gonna make ya pay. We wanted no part of it, so we split from him. We left that life behind. Please... ya gotta believe me."
The boy froze, staring at the man, processing his words before returning his head forward. His breath came in heavy bursts as the rage still burned in his chest. Slowly, he loosened his grip on the other man's throat and got up, allowing him to gasp for air.
The boy stood in silence, towering over them, his eyes still dark with fury. The two men remained on the ground, battered and bruised, barely able to believe the beating they had just endured at the hands of someone so young.
After what felt like an eternity of silence, the boy finally turned and walked away, his body tense. Neither man said a word as they watched him leave, stunned into silence. Bruised and broken, they exchanged a glance of disbelief, the fear still lingering in their eyes. They had survived, but the encounter had left them shaken to their core.
Lefty, the last of the men, was busy setting up a new tent far from his usual spot. His face was twisted in a scowl as he moved silently, anger simmering beneath his skin. He lifted a few boxes, organizing his belongings, when a faint noise caught his attention.
He turned sharply, his eyes widening in shock. Standing at the entrance was the boy, his face twisted in pure, unbridled rage; a fury so intense it seemed to radiate from him. Lefty instinctively stepped back, the boxes slipping from his hands and crashing to the ground. The boy advanced a step, his eyes locked onto the man who had taken everything from him.
"You goddamn mouse," Lefty sneered, though there was an undercurrent of surprise in his voice.
The boy's response was immediate, cutting through the tension like a knife. "You killed him," he said, his voice low but filled with raw emotion. He wanted to hear it, needed to hear the confirmation.
Lefty stood there for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, as if a switch had flipped, a cruel grin spread across his face.
"You mean that idiot, Scraggy?" he said, the words hitting the boy like a slap. "Yeah, that's right." His grin widened, malicious and mocking. "He didn't even know what hit him."
The confirmation was all the boy needed. In a heartbeat, he lunged at Lefty, his right fist swinging with all the fury he could muster. Lefty, however, was ready. He dodged the boy's punch with ease and countered with a heavy blow to the boy's torso, the impact knocking the wind out of him. As the boy staggered, Lefty grabbed him by the collar, pulling him close.
"You would've joined him too if you'd been there," Lefty hissed, leaning in dangerously close. His voice dropped to a whisper by the boy's ear. "But don't worry, I'll send you to him soon enough."
With that, the fight erupted in full force. The boy, driven by rage, swung wildly, his fists fueled by grief and anger. But Lefty, hardened by years in prison, was no stranger to violence. His body was muscular, sculpted from years of intense workouts behind bars, and he easily blocked many of the boy's strikes. They traded blows, each hit landing with the force of their hatred for one another.
Unlike the other two men, Lefty was strong, his punches brutal. The boy tried not to back down, but after Lefty landed punch after punch, his brutal blows overwhelmed the boy. Each hit felt like a sledgehammer, and soon the boy began to falter under the onslaught. The hulking man laughed, mocking his young opponent with every swing.
"You moronic child," Lefty sneered between punches. "You should've run while you had the chance. But instead, you chose to walk right into the lion's den."
With a final, powerful blow, Lefty knocked the boy to the ground. His laughter echoed in the small space as he kicked the boy viciously, aiming for his torso and head. Pain surged through the boy's body, and he realized how outmatched he was against this monstrous man. Lefty's kicks were relentless, each one threatening to send him into unconsciousness.
"You should've seen his face," Lefty suddenly said, his voice dripping with sadistic glee. "I put so many bullets in him, he began to look like Swiss cheese."
That sentence, that image, ignited a fresh wave of fury in the boy. At that moment, the rage that surged in him had far surpassed anything he had ever felt in his entire life. Before Lefty could land another kick, the boy's leg shot out, sweeping the man off his feet. With surprising speed, the boy leaped up, capitalizing on the moment, straddling Lefty and pinning him down.
Lefty tried to fight back, throwing a punch at the boy's face. But the boy caught his fist mid-air, gripping it with such strength that Lefty's eyes widened in shock. He tried to pull free, but the boy's grasp was ironclad, impossibly strong for someone so young.
The boy's eyes were different now; wild with rage, nearly glowing with a blood-red intensity. And then, without warning, he started pummeling Lefty, his fists crashing down onto the man's face like sledgehammers. Each punch was harder than the last, splitting skin and bruising bone. Lefty's face became a bloody mess, his consciousness slipping with every devastating hit.
In a desperate attempt to survive, Lefty reached under the mattress beside him, his fingers brushing against cold metal as he slowly pulled out a pistol. Lefty pointed the gun with haste at the boy, but before he could fire, the boy disarmed him, snatching the gun from his hand in one swift, fluid motion.
Lefty, bloodied and broken, looked up at the boy, a sick grin pulling at his split lips as he witnessed the boy tilt the weapon toward him.
"You... you don't have the guts," he croaked through the pain.
The boy's expression was unreadable, his rage boiling beneath the surface. Then, without hesitation, he squeezed the trigger. A single shot rang out, and Lefty's body jerked as the bullet pierced his skull.
There was a moment of silence. But the boy's fury hadn't subsided. He fired again. And again. And again. Each shot a mirror of what had happened to Oscar. He emptied the clip into Lefty's body, firing until the gun clicked, its ammunition spent. And even then, the boy kept pulling the trigger, the cold metallic clicks echoing in the night.
He had closed his eyes, lost in the storm of his rage. But now, as the final click sounded, he slowly opened them. His breath came in ragged gasps, and he looked down at Lefty's lifeless body. Blood pooled beneath him, the sight surreal. Trembling, the boy's gaze fell to his own hands, still gripping the gun.
He let it drop, the weapon falling from his grasp as though it burned him.
His heart pounded violently in his chest. Shock replaced the fury in his eyes, and his breaths became shallow, panicked. He couldn't tear his gaze away from the scene before him, the gruesome aftermath of what he had just done.
In a whisper, barely audible between his ragged breaths, the boy finally spoke, his voice full of disbelief and horror.
"What have I done?"