A grey existence is tantamount to death, thought the crimson haired boy, spitting out a gob of blood. Bruised and sore, he readied a pair of clenched fists.

  “Cut out the tough guy act, Azrael,” said a tall, lanky youth, his voice cutting through the tension.

  “It isn’t an act, Briar,” retorted Azrael. Unleashing a fierce roar, he launched himself at the lanky youth, channelling a punch imbued with all his might.

  Briar effortlessly sidestepped the blow, deflecting it with the back of his hand. In the same vein, he drove the heel of his palm into Azrael’s vulnerable chest, sending the redhead stumbling backwards, falling into the clutches of a trio of sneering henchmen. Their grip tightened around his arms and torso, pinning him against the harsh surface of a stone wall. Miffed, he strained against their hold, his wounds throbbing with each desperate attempt to break free.

  “What’s the matter tough guy? Lose your spunk?” asked Briar, grabbing him by his crimson hair. “Scream and struggle all you want. In this alley, no one’s coming to save you, not even good ol’ Granny. Not like she left you with much coin.” A sack of loose change dangled from his hand, before he stuffed it into a pocket, behind him. “But it should make do for now.”

  The redhead gritted his teeth, his breathing, ragged. He arched his neck forward, baring his teeth. Briar’s grip held him in place, foiling his attempt at biting a chunk off the bully.

  “You’re closer to a filthy mutt at this point!” The bully sneered and his henchmen guffawed in hilarity, unrelenting their grip on the redhead.

  In his anguish, Azrael summoned every ounce of strength he could muster, producing a rumbling noise from the depths of his throat. The laughter obscured his guttural rumble, letting loose a healthy dose of phlegm. The coagulated, ochre glob sailed through the air and smeared Briar’s face in a bright yellow splatter.

  He reeled back, fervently wiping the ochre globules off his face, retching in aversion.

  “How’d you like that, you vile–” The redhead doubled over, a piercing throb smarting through his belly. Briar’s fist was lodged deep into a hollow carved from Azrael’s abdomen, wrenched out in a gut-grinding jerk. Black spots danced before his eyes, expelling a fresh batch of bile that collectively soiled his and the henchmen’s boots. Gagging in disgust, the henchmen trio held a taut grip on him, strongarming him from the wall to a muddy puddle, face first.

  “You’re going to regret that,” hissed Briar. Twisting his ankle, he landed a kick squarely in Azrael’s flank, earning a weak groan, signalling the henchmen to join in. In a boisterous fit, the group of four dug their feet into every ounce of him.

  Curling into a ball, the redhead held his hands up defensively, covering half his face, choking on puddle water that was mixed in with twin rivulets of humiliation down his face. Is this all life ever amounts to?

  Past the gaps of his defence, shadows flitted about the alley, passing by the stone walls, beckoning him with a seductive nod. Reaching out with a shaky hand, a boot came hurtling at his face, whisking his consciousness away.

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“I lost count how many fights you’ve been in,” said a concerned, yet stern voice.

  Half opening an eye, Azrael broke into a coughing fit. Jolting awake and sitting upright, his eyes met with the familiar interior of the room he shared with ten other kids. “Uh, what happened?” He clutched his belly, doubling over in pain.

  “It was ‘ard work carrying you here. Luckily, Briar and the others did all the ‘eavy lifting. That was two days ago, for reference.” An elderly woman with flowing silver hair and a frail constitution looked at him with moistening blue orbs. “’ow many times do I gotta tell you to keep outta the fights?”

  Gritting his teeth, he knit his eyebrows in a scowl. “The fights come to me. I don’t get to choose my battles.”

  Heaving a heavy sigh, Granny dabbed at the corners of her eyes and wrinkled her nose. “I applied some ‘ealing salve to your wounds. You were in quite a state, but two days of rest patched you up good.” Leaning closer, she lowered her voice. “If something’s a bother, you can always tell me. I’m ‘ere for you, dear.”

  In that instant, Azrael’s anger dissipated till all that remained was guilt plunging him into an abysmal pit. Swallowing hard against the tightness in his throat, he felt as if he was still drowning in the muddy puddles of the alleyway. He wanted to tell Granny about Briar and the henchmen, but he knew that revealing the truth would only break her heart. Being Briar’s grandmother had his tight throat tauten like a noose.

  “No, it’s nothing.” Azrael shrugged nonchalantly, clenching his fists underneath the blanket. She had taken me in when I was abandoned by my parents at the doorsteps of her orphanage. Growing up with strangers all fourteen years of my life, including Briar and his henchmen, meant we all had our frustrations with being a part of the abandoned club. And yet, somehow, I had wound up as the punching bag for those dregs.

  “Alright.”  Granny clasped his clenched fist over the blanket, her grip light as air. “Come down and ‘ave some porridge when you in the mood.” Tapping his hand, she took her leave. The deafening silence that followed, asphyxiated him.

  Wrapping his blanket over his head, he reduced himself to a coiled mound under the covers, a rush of tears wetting the sides of his face. “That piece of no good, lying son of a–” He was cut short by a surge of emotions filled to bursting. “Two more years. Once I’m sixteen, I can leave this place and explore the world. I’ll save up money by working odd jobs and live in the woods. There’s got to be more to this world than this oppressive orphanage.”

  A burst of cheers shattered the heaviness in the air, filling the room with vibrant dynamism. Shrill, childish voices echoed, steeping the atmosphere in innocent joy. The stampede of tiny feet approached, their eagerness reopening the tender bruises on Azrael’s body, forcing him to wipe the tears off his face and jump out his cover.

  “Finally, up?” asked a snot-nosed brat, who had plopped down on the redhead’s bed, tilting his head to the side.

  “Alyson, why’d you do that?” asked Azrael.

  “Asreal sleeping too long,” replied 4-year Alyson. In the next instant, he let lose a stream of urine, thoroughly soaking his bed.

  “Ahhhh!” exclaimed Azrael. He pulled the covers off his bed, flinging Alyson onto the floor in a loud thud.

  The 4-year-old wailed, running out the door, yelling, “GRANNNYYY!”

  “Oh perfect.” The redhead billowed a sigh, rubbing his temples. He made his way to the corner of the room and grabbed a mop and rag cloth. Spewing a string of curses, he scrubbed the floor while the ache in his back and belly faded. “That’s some salve.”

  Stretching his back, he twisted from side-to-side, loosening his hips. He noticed traces of urine dripping from his mattress to the floor beneath. Abandoning his mop, he ducked under, armed with the rag cloth. Dabbing the underbelly of the bed and wiping off the last traces of liquid yellow, he pushed off the floor.

  In his annoyance, he fumbled his balance. His head cracked into a wooden edge, adding to the injuries he had sustained. A tiara of stars circled his pate, plunging him into unconsciousness in record time.