Life is hard, and even harder when you wake up in the middle of a beating. I didn't know why, but I could feel it without needing to see it, as I was lost in a heavy fog. My consciousness seemed distant, like in a deep dream, with every blow burning my skin in a terrible sensation. And yet, with my senses muffled, I couldn't do anything.
It was a nightmare. Not truly torture, but I was deprived of sight, cold, and full of pain, with no idea where to run. Still, there seemed to be a light at the end of the tunnel, as my body and mind slowly began to recover.
By fortune, I managed to step back. My survival instinct kicked in, pushing away the source of my pain. I was desperate, unable to understand what was happening, trying to put distance between myself and the strikes aimed at my head, each heavier than the last.
Where was the source of my pain, and what was attacking me? More importantly, how could I stop it? Those questions were like lighting a fire for the first time in an eternal winter, bringing back a spark of reason. My brain began to reorder priorities, forming an idea to escape this torment. A clear objective emerged: I wanted—no, I needed—to stop whatever was attacking me.
First, I had to stay upright, orient myself, and listen to my surroundings. I poured all my will into making my body obey, as a starting point.
I tried to shout: "Stop, please, mercy, cease fire, or at least I surrender!" But what came out was a babble, incoherent groans. This worked against me, seeming to encourage my tormentor.
I tried again to push back and regain distance, but whatever was punishing me was clever. It grabbed one of my arms and pulled. I reacted instinctively to a blow aimed at my chest, pushing with all my weight and my free arm, barely dodging it by miracle. I tried to stop it with every universal hand gesture I knew, but it continued its relentless advance.
If only I could say something to communicate. Yet another misfortune added to my list: my eyelids wouldn't respond. I fought to open my eyes, hoping to solve the problem, but only moved from one cage to another. Darkness turned into blinding white. I focused on it, all while receiving a beating from my attacker. I felt powerless, but crying would do nothing—I had to concentrate on what I could do. A fist to my mouth brought me back to reality, my gums burning.
I sharpened my senses, entering a hyper state where my surroundings became clearer. My instincts urged me to move. To my surprise, I no longer felt the impacts—I could predict the blows seconds before they landed.
My being had a crazy idea, a solution: attack him not just with everything, but worse—forget being clever, strike like an animal. Yet I had no time, because before I could form a plan or even move, I was overwhelmed and thrown off balance. A kick to my ankle sent me crashing sideways onto the cold pavement. How could I win, or even save my life, if this kept going?
Then I saw it—the fall, the surprise—it forced my eyes open. And once again I noticed it, not directly, but in the reflection of a puddle formed of petrichor mixed with my tears of pain and anguish. I forced myself to lunge toward where it was, only to instantly receive its continuous attacks, like a baptism that filled my chest with rage. This time I was no longer lost in thought; I returned those savage, ancient blows without hesitation, not caring whether they landed or not.
With everything against me, the barrage of strikes left me dizzy. Still, I dodged a kick—or at least I think I did—and in a moment of sheer luck I delivered the blow of triumph. It stunned him for a blessed instant, though my fists were destroyed, since I had never before needed to strike another. It was a random flail that, by accident, landed in the most sensitive of places. I was grateful my abuser seemed vulnerable there.
I gained a precious breath, still standing only because no vital organ or lethal wound had been struck—or so I believed, since I hadn't yet collapsed. But I was far from fine. I thought my nose was broken, as I struggled for air, my whole body bruised and burning. I wanted to end this. Something primitive inside me awakened; my frantic chest froze—not from the rain falling, but like the calm before the storm.
With my eyes still swollen, I didn't waste time. I acted—perhaps out of fear, perhaps out of rage, I'm not sure. What I am sure of is that I would truly be beaten to death if I did nothing to stop him. I tried to strike his face, but the bastard grabbed my wrist with such force that I felt it might tear away. Desperate against his stubbornness, I stopped thinking about consequences: I drove my elbow into his neck. He tried to block me, but I was faster. The impact freed my hand from his crushing grip, and in terror of a counterattack I seized that brief moment to unleash all the strength I had left into his face, as if there were no tomorrow.
I received a kick, but it didn't push me away; instead, it struck one of my legs and toppled me onto him. Frenzied, I kept attacking. I heard his groans, though the rain drowned many of them, and I didn't care. I no longer aimed—not because I didn't want to, but because I couldn't. I don't even know if I missed any blows; I just kept going. I felt him try to push me off, but that only made me strike faster, each second aware that every breath could be my last.
Immersed in the chaos, I stopped automatically when I heard a crack. A sound that would normally be imperceptible, but in our closeness it was as clear as a doorbell. I pulled back my palms and collapsed onto my back, drained by the sudden loss of strength.
It was as if a train had slammed into a mountain. I breathed heavily, like an office worker who went out to buy bread and ended up running a triathlon before collapsing into bed unconscious. I raised my hands to my face, trying to rub my eyes, but a conditional signal of pain forced me to pull them away. Another signal came from my hands—I barely noticed at first, but when I did, I rubbed them and realized their state. I had destroyed more than just the threat to my life: my knuckles were shattered, one wrist twisted, and in the other hand a metacarpal bone slightly protruding.