He howled, the sound raw and ugly, tried to shake me off, but I didn’t let go. Not until my mouth filled with copper, warm and metallic, running down my throat like rusted pennies. Could’ve been his blood. Could’ve been mine. Didn’t matter.
He jerked back, curses flying in Russian as he clutched his bleeding hand. For a second, I thought maybe I’d won. That maybe holding on was enough.
Then he ripped the package out of my arms like I was nothing.
My body buckled forward, empty hands closing on air. I lunged after him, ribs screaming, chest on fire, blood dripping down to the pavement. He shoved me back, hard, and I hit the dumpster like a rag doll.
He didn’t stab me again. Didn’t need to.
Just stood there, smirking, butcher paper tucked under his arm, like he’d taught me a lesson worth more than the drop itself.
Then he turned the corner and was gone.
I sat there in the rot and metal stink, chest split open, blood in my mouth, hands empty.
First job. First failure.
And the last time I ever went into a drop blind.
I don’t remember standing up. Just remember walking home, sweatshirt soaked.
When I got to the apartment, Papa didn’t look up.
He was on the couch. Cigarette dangling. Half-empty bottle on the table. News on the TV with no volume.
He glanced once. Just long enough to see the blood.
Then he flicked his ash and said,“You fucked up. You lost. You want pity? If you’re still breathing, it means you can do it again. And this time, you don’t lose.”
No bandage. No questions. Just the rule.
Survive = Try again.
I did.
Week after week. Job after job.
Until the pain stopped mattering. Until the fear got replaced by math. One more day. One more run. One more set of teeth to dodge.
Until I stopped caring about why.
Until living didn’t feel like a win anymore. Just the next round.
The bag snaps back toward me, rope twisting. I duck. Swing again. Left jab, right cross, elbow.
My lungs burn.
But it’s not enough.
Because in her voice, in that split fucking second, she made me twelve again. Made me feel like I needed saving.
And I don’t.
I survived that alley. I survived Papa.
I survived twenty years of blood and concrete.
I don’t need softness disguised as mercy. Not from her. Not from anyone.
