"Don't go. We’ll have fun, I promise," Lucas said, his voice light and inviting.

He threw his arm over my shoulder like we were old friends. For a moment, I felt relief. Maybe this was just harmless. Maybe they weren’t as bad as they seemed.

Then he pulled something out of his pocket. "Look at this," he said, holding up a pack of cigarettes. "Let’s smoke, yeah?"

Before I could respond, his friends formed a circle around me, their voices chiming in like a chant. "Just one, come on! Just one!"

Lucas smiled, holding out a cigarette. "Here. It’s no big deal."

"I don’t smoke," I said, my voice shaky but polite. "I’m... I’m sorry." I tried to stay calm. I knew better than to offend them, but the last thing I wanted was to put that thing anywhere near my mouth.

Lucas raised an eyebrow. "It’s just one. What’s it gonna do to you?" His friends nodded, egging me on like this was some kind of initiation.

I hated smoke. I hated everything about it. The smell, the taste, the way it clung to you. My dad used to smoke all the time when he was drunk, shoving cigarettes in my face and telling me to "be a man" and try it. I’d always say no, and he’d just click his tongue in disappointment before lighting up himself.

"Come on," the tall guy said, his deep voice cutting through the noise. "Just try it."

Lucas pushed the cigarette closer to my face. I wanted to back away, but his friends were blocking me in. I hesitated, thinking maybe if I just took one puff, they’d leave me alone.

With a shaky hand, I grabbed the cigarette. "I thought you were a weirdo!" Lucas shouted, laughing. "But you’re awesome after all!"

Their laughter erupted as I brought the cigarette to my lips. I took a hesitant inhale, and immediately, my throat burned. I coughed uncontrollably, my chest heaving as I doubled over. "Hack! Hack! Kuhhh-kuhhh!"

"WAHAHAHAH!" Their laughter was deafening, echoing around me. Lucas wiped tears from his eyes, barely able to stand. "Do it again! Come on, try it again!"

He picked up the cigarette from the ground, brushing it off like it was a prized possession, and shoved it toward me.

"I already did one," I said, my voice small, the taste still burning on my tongue. It was awful—bitter and disgusting, like ash mixed with regret.

"Just one more," Lucas said, his grin wide, his tone almost daring.

I shook my head, feeling trapped, humiliated, and utterly powerless. "I need to go home." I said.

"Come on, let your bitch mom wait. Just finish this one, and you’re good," Lucas sneered, shoving the cigarette toward my mouth.

I didn’t care about the cigarette anymore. But when he said that about my mom—something even my drunk, angry father had never dared to say—it hit a nerve I didn’t know I had.

Thwack.

In my mind, I saw it all: my fist connecting with his face, the shock in his eyes as I grabbed his head and drove my knee into his gut. I imagined him crumpling to the ground while I kept hitting him, punch after punch, until he begged for mercy.

But none of that happened.

Instead, I just stood there, shaking with rage and fear. My fists clenched, my teeth grinding together, but no words came out. I wanted to fight back so badly, but I was terrified—of him, his friends, and whatever consequences would follow.

So I did the only thing I could. I inhaled the cigarette, forcing it down in one long drag, and tried to keep my coughs to a minimum.

"THAT’S IT!" Lucas shouted, clapping his hands like he’d just seen the performance of a lifetime.

"Woah, woah!" one of his friends said.

"He’s quick," another muttered, their voices buzzing around me like flies.

I finished the cigarette, my throat burning, my lungs screaming for air. But the worst pain was inside. I didn’t care that I smoked—I cared that I’d let him insult my mom and did nothing. I’d failed her, and I’d failed myself.

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"That’s great," Lucas said, grinning like a devil. "Now we’ve gotta do this every day after school, huh? You’ll hang out with us. What do you think?"

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. But I didn’t say no either, and that was enough for them.

From that day on, I became their plaything. Lucas and his friends started using me for everything. They’d demand I bring them money or food, force me to smoke every day, and eventually, I started drinking too. All the good habits I’d built—jogging, studying, working on myself—they crumbled into nothing.

I even started talking back to my mom. I hated myself for it, but it was like the more I hung out with them, the more I became like them.

Every day after school, we’d hang out. I’d watch them torment kids and random strangers, bullying them, beating them up, sometimes even spitting on them. At first, it made me sick. But as time passed, I got used to it. It became normal.

Eventually, they made me join in. Kicking someone when they were already on the ground, shoving them, laughing as they cried—I hated it. But I also felt... powerful. Stronger than I’d ever felt before.

We started stealing too. Money, phones, whatever we could grab. I stopped caring about school completely. Even on weekends, I hung out with them. We’d waste hours at the arcade or just roaming the streets, pretending we owned the world.

It was like I’d become someone else. Someone who didn’t have to worry about my broken family, my stepdad, or my failures. When I was with them, I wasn’t the awkward kid with no friends. I was dangerous.

But then they started to change. Lucas and his friends, the same people I thought I could trust—even if just a little—began turning on me. At first, it was subtle. They’d make me clean up their messes, force me to carry their stuff, or shove me harder than usual during their so-called “friendly punches.”

But then it escalated. They began focusing their attention on me. They demanded more money, more cigarettes, more of everything. And when I couldn’t deliver, they’d beat me senseless.

"Don’t be mad at us," Lucas said once, his tone casual like we were still friends. "This is just normal, considering you didn’t bring anything valuable today."

Then came the kicks—sharp, brutal kicks to my back. I curled up on the ground, shielding my stomach as best I could, but it wasn’t enough.

That’s when the thought hit me: I could fight back. I could throw a punch at Lucas, hit him in the face, and let the chips fall where they may.

But then fear took over.

"Be sure to bring money tomorrow," Lucas said, towering over me as I lay on the ground, barely conscious.

The same things they used to do to other people—beating them up, kicking them while they cried for help—were now happening to me. Lucas spat on my shirt, laughing as he muttered, "Fuck you, blind weirdo."

And then, the dreaded “tomorrow” came. I still couldn’t bring him anything. My mom wouldn’t give me money, and when I swallowed my pride and begged my stepdad, he just scoffed.

"Are you doing drugs or something?" he snapped, his eyes narrowing at my deteriorating appearance.

I didn’t recognize myself anymore. My face looked gaunt, my body thin, my hygiene unkempt because I no longer cared enough to even clean myself. I was consumed by the need to scrape together enough money to avoid another beating.

"Fuck!" Lucas screamed, biting his nails in frustration as I stood empty-handed. "Why don’t you just bring me my money?"

His obsession with money made me want to snap. If I had cash, I’d shove it in his face and punch him until he couldn’t stand. But I didn’t have any. And even if I did, I wouldn’t have the guts to fight back.

"Come here," Lucas said, motioning me toward the center of their group. His grin was a mix of mockery and menace. "You ready for your punishment?"

The tall guy stepped forward, his fists the size of bricks.

"Give him ten punches to the stomach," Lucas ordered, his voice cold.

I tried to brace myself, but it was useless. The punches came hard and fast, each one worse than the last. I couldn’t stop the blood from rising in my throat. By the fifth punch, I was vomiting blood, my body collapsing under the pain.

They saw it. They saw the blood, but they didn’t stop. They just kept going.

When I got home that day, I looked worse than ever. My mom immediately came up to me, worry etched on her face.

“Are you really doing drugs?” she asked, her voice shaky, almost pleading

I didn’t answer. I just walked past her and headed to my room, shutting the door behind me. I didn’t have the energy or the will to explain. I dropped onto the bed, staring at the ceiling as the pain in my stomach throbbed.

That’s when the thought of suicide crept into my mind. What if I just ended it all right here? Wouldn’t it be easier than living like this? Was it normal for high schoolers to feel this way, to experience this kind of hell?

But then the questions came, relentless and unkind. Why didn’t anyone care? Why didn’t the teachers stop it? Why didn’t anyone stand up and help me?

But then I thought, Maybe it’s my fault.

I never spoke up about it. I never tried to ask for help. And I wasn’t innocent either. I’d punched someone for fun once becasue of Lucas and his friends, and it felt good. Maybe this was karma. Maybe I deserved everything that was happening to me.

“This is... really... f-fucked up,” I stuttered, tears streaming down my face. I cried myself to sleep that night, I never expect to rain so much that night.

Then came the day my stepdad finally had enough.

“You’re affecting us! You really.. I warned you and I had enough,” he said coldly, glaring at me like I was a stain he couldn’t wait to clean off.

I stood there, frozen, while my mom stayed silent. She didn’t argue, didn’t defend me and I understand why. All she did was tap me on the back as if to say goodbye.

I packed my things quietly, the weight of their rejection crushing me. When I walked out the door, my mom didn’t even look back.

From that moment on, I was alone. I stopped going to school entirely. There was no point. I had no home, no family, and no future. I started smoking on my own, not because of anyone else, but because I wanted to. I drank whenever I could scrape together enough spare change.

No one controlled me anymore. But the freedom felt empty. I was out on the streets, where peace was a joke. The constant noise, the chaos, and the unexpected dangers were my new reality.

It wasn’t a life. It was survival. And even that felt like too much.

When I thought I was finally free from Lucas and his grip on my life, I saw them again. They were walking toward where I had been sleeping that night.

"There you are, you rat," Lucas sneered, flanked by four guys.

The fear came rushing back like a wave, suffocating and paralyzing me. Trauma wrapped around me like chains, pulling me into the familiar hopelessness. But this time, something felt different. I remembered: I had no one. No family, no home, no future. If I died, no one would care. That thought cleared my mind in the most unsettling way.

Lucas pointed at me like I was a dog. "Come over here," he commanded, his tone dripping with mockery.

I’ll end you. I’ll make you suffer. You deserve this. Those were the only thoughts in my mind as I started walking toward him. The other guys were too far back to intervene if I acted quickly.

"Walk faster, you shitface," Lucas snapped, his arrogance oozing from every word.

"Smoke with m—"

Thwack.

Lucas’s words were cut short.

I had my knife. I didn’t even know when I picked it up—a random find while wandering the streets, something I thought might be useful for protection. I never imagined using it. But now, it was in my hand, and I’d slashed it across Lucas’s face.

Blood poured from his eyes as he screamed, his hands clutching at his face in sheer agony. My plan had been simple: blind him. Maybe even slash his neck after. But the moment I saw the blood dripping from the blade, reality hit me like a freight train.

Lucas dropped to his knees, screaming, cursing, crying. I stared at the knife in my hand, my grip shaking. Blood dripped onto the ground, and for a moment, everything around me went silent.

I didn’t think. I just ran.

I darted into the shadows, through alleys and dark corners, gripping the bloodied knife like it was my lifeline. My heart raced so fast it felt like it might burst, but my mind was eerily calm, almost numb.

Fear coursed through me, sharp and cold.

But underneath that fear, something darker simmered.

Excitement.

Contentment.

For the first time, I didn’t feel powerless. For the first time, I fought back.