The Stolen Star

The neighborhood smells weird. Like garbage and wet dogs. Oppression has an odor to it. Skinny kids and skinny mutts stand on the sidewalks, watching me hurry past. The brick buildings stretch up, blocking out the sun and keeping the wind from ever really removing the dank smell of the dark alleys. All the windows from the first stories up to the fourth or fifth are either completely boarded over or layered with iron bars.

Every time we have to move, David finds us places deeper and deeper into these desolate neighborhoods. It’s safer, Serah, he claims. They won’t find us here.

He’s never told me what we’re running from. We stick to the poorest areas with the highest populations so we can blend in easier. The remains of regular cities are home to all of those who don’t qualify for an apartment in the metroblocks. Most of us are undocumented, unregistered, and, fortunately, untraceable.

The gang members are waiting on their usual corner, leaning against the walls of the nearest building and blocking the sidewalks. A few of them have huge dogs with square heads and mouths full of sharp teeth. I could duck into the alley and go around them, but they’ve seen me already. They feed on fear. If I run, they’ll chase me.

But I’ve shown these thugs I’m not the average girl. I’m taller than most of them, and my curves aren’t just from poor nutritional habits. I’ve fought for my life against a few of these men before and won.

I hold my head high and walk through the outer rings. The dogs growl and lunge on their leashes and it takes all I have not to cringe or flinch. The leader of the gang, a muscle-bound thug they call Monster, steps in front of me. “Hey, chica. What you got in your bag?”

I make eye contact. Anger is started to edge out my fear. These asses stop me nearly every day with the same questions. Three of them bear scars from wounds I’ve dealt out. I just want to be left alone. “A few half-rotten potatoes, Monster, and a box of leftovers from the garbage can at work. Nothing you’d be interested in.”

He smirks. “I got kids to feed. You think they wouldn’t like some real food from a restaurant?”

He’s an asshole. A thug. A criminal. But the gangs do a sort of a service around here. Monster’s gang watches over a horde of orphans, homeless kids who live in one of the run-down buildings. It doesn’t excuse his penchant for violence or his reputation as a murderer. It doesn’t make it okay to terrorize the innocent people who just want to find a way to survive. He makes victims, and I hate that.

“I’d be more than willing to share the few scraps I have with hungry children. Unfortunately, I don’t see any hungry kids. Just your asshole thugs and their dogs.”

He leans close, eyes narrowing. “You doubtin’ me, girl?”

“Yeah, I am. You want me to give the food I’ve earned away, I want to see the kids I’m giving it to.”

He grabs a handful of my shirt and shoves me backwards. He’s strong, strong enough to lift me off my feet and move me easily. That’s no easy feat--I’m tall, solid. My back thuds against the unforgiving brick wall of the building. The back of my head connects hard enough to make me see stars.

I’m not a victim.

He’s taller than me, but not by much. I bring my knee up, hard and fast, but he’s faster. Still, I manage to wedge my knee between his hips and mine, even if I didn’t crush his nuts like I intended. It’s enough to give me some leverage. Some space. His other hand closes around my throat.

“You’re too big for you britches, girl. I run this street. I will take what I want, and I will do with it as I please.” He lets go of my shirt and snatches the bag out of my hand. Tries to, anyway. I hang on. His face twists into a scowl. “Are you listening to me, bitch? Let go of the bag!”