Maybe it’s because I am so completely dead and broken that I’d rather have his foot shoved into mypretty little mouthbecause I can take the physical pain over the emotional turmoil.
He steps towards me, and I realise that I am completely cocooned in my sleeping bag. There’s fuck all I can do to get out quick enough before he descends.
So, I do the only thing I can. I cover my face and curl into a ball whilst the stinking arsehole teaches me the way of the streets.
He teaches me that this doorway is his, and I shouldn’t be here.
He teaches me that pretty little mouths should be shut when he’s talking.
He teaches me that, like James, some people just want to beat on the little guys to make themselves feel better.
This arsehole is no different.
Lights from a car shine over the scene, casting my body in his shadows, whilst he still kicks me. And l just lay there, taking it. Staring off into the distance, wondering if this was what it was like for Owen. Choosing an object and staring at it, wishing you were anywhere but there in that moment. Wishing the pain away.
Except he didn’t stare at an object. He’d stare at the wardrobe door where I was hidden. Sometimes I’d stare right back, sending him strength.
But no one is giving me strength right now.
I thought the physical pain would be easier, but it’s not, because as I take my beating, I think about how Owen took his…to protect me.
There it is again, the emotional pain.
Now I’m feeling both.
Emotional and physical.
And here I am again, regretting my choices and wishing I was invisible.
“Hey. Hey.”
The lights are blinding between the gaps in my arms that protect my face.
“What the fuck are you doing, man?”
Someone grapples with the stinking man, and he’s thrown onto the ground, the sound of his body cracking against the marble doorway radiating straight through me.
Tears pool in my eyes. They track down my cheeks as splinters of lightning crash through my ribs and stomach.
“You piece of shit,” the man, who looks to be in his late thirties early forties, spits towards the homeless man, whose motionless body is now half lying on my sleeping bag, half on his own belongings.
He crouches down in front of me, dark hair with a peppering of grey and bright blue eyes that stare at me. “Are you okay there, little one?”
I blink.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
I take stock.
“Can you move?”
I don’t speak, but I nod and attempt to sit up. The man’s arm comes under my armpit, and I cry out.
“You’re okay there, little one. I’ve got you. I’m Andrews. What say we get you out the cold and to a doctor?”
