Scars That Don't Fade

Left, Right...Punch

My ratty sneakers pounded a frantic rhythm against the uneven sidewalk. My bony frame ached with each desperate inhale. Despite my height, I was a tangle of limbs, dwarfed by the menacing shadow looming behind me.

"Hey!" I shrieked, voice cracking with a mix of terror and defiance. "Get away from me!"

The man, a bulldog with a sneer for a face, remained silent. A hand the size of a dinner plate rocketed towards me, the world exploding in a kaleidoscope of pain and white light. My cheek burned like fire, a metallic tang flooding my mouth. Tears welled, blurring the vision of another brutal swipe, and another. Each blow ignited a cold fury within me. I wasn't scared anymore, just angry, a white-hot rage that threatened to consume me.

Finally, the assault stopped. Gruff hands yanked me off the ground by my collar and the seat of my pants, hoisting me effortlessly before tossing me aside like yesterday's trash.

He stood there, a silhouette of cruelty against the dying embers of the day, a hint of twisted amusement playing on his lips. Maybe he thrived on the sight of a terrified kid, but I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

Years down the line, the memory remains etched in my mind. Not the searing pain, but the icy tendrils of rage that coiled around my heart, long after the physical ache had faded. He might be gone, another nameless Yakuza thug lost to the streets, but the echo of his violence reverberates within me. A chilling reminder etched into my soul..