The alley smells like wet asphalt and rotting garbage. Rain falls in thin sheets, washing the city in gray.
I crouch in the shadows, hands shoved deep in my pockets. My eyes scan the alley like I'm expecting something, though I don't know what.
"Don't look. Don't care. Don't get involved."
A sudden scream slices through the drizzle. I flinch, but I don't move.
"Not my problem."
Footsteps splash in puddles, fast and uneven. A group of older boys have cornered a smaller kid against the brick wall, laughing as they shove him around.
"Typical."
Most kids would scream.
Most would run.
Most would cry.
My fists twitch inside my pockets.
I stay still.
"Not my problem."
And yet…
He's scared. He can't get away. Someone should, no, not me.
The first shove sends the small boy stumbling.
My breath catches.
"Why do I even care?"
Something inside me snaps, a memory I can't shake.
The alley.
The cold.
The thugs.
My father's voice cut short in a scream, snuffed out.
"I won't be weak like that. I can't."
Without thinking, I step forward.
"Hey." My voice is calm, flat, like I don't expect a reply.
The bullies turn.
One laughs.
"What, kid? Wanna get hurt?"
I raise my hands. Not a pose. Not bravado. Just... ready.
In seconds, it's over. The small boy runs without looking back.
I wipe my knuckles on my sleeve.
Blood.
Pain.
Satisfaction?
None.
"I don't want friends. I don't need them."
Later that night, at the edge of the alley, a shadow lingers. A tall boy leans casually against the wall, watching me.
"That was... dope" he says.
I glance at him.
"Dope?" I mutter. My expression unreadable.
"You didn't fight for yourself. You protected him. Not many people would do that."
"Great. Someone noticed. Just what I didn't want."
"I don't do it for you or anyone." I mutter, starting to turn away.
The other boy grins. "Fair. Doesn't mean I can't respect it."
I keep walking.
Rain plastering my hair to my forehead.
"Keep moving. Don't get attached."
At home, the apartment is empty. Just me, the cold floor, and my mother. She sits quietly in the corner, eyes tired, hands trembling over a small bowl of rice.
"Eat" she whispers. Her voice is soft, kind.
I shake my head. "I'm fine."
She says nothing more.
She knows.
She always knows.
Alone, poor, afraid, but she survives.
"Good. Leave me alone too."
The next day at school, I walk past classmates who stare and whisper.
"Rat-blood... gangster trash..."
I don't respond.
I don't fight.
I don't care.
"Not my problem."
But sometimes, late at night, staring at my bruised knuckles in the mirror, I whisper to myself:
"Never again. I'll never be weak again."
And behind the crooked, broken smile I wear, a single, silent vow burns:
I survive. Alone.