Mr.McQueen

Shattered Dreams, Broken Walls

The cold pavement pressed against my skin like ice, the rough concrete biting into my palms as I tried to push myself up. My chest ached with every shallow breath, a burning pain searing through my ribs that made my vision swim. I wasn't sure if they were cracked, or worse. But I didn't care.
Everything was spinning-my head, the world around me. I couldn't even remember how I ended up here. There were flashes: fists, the sickening thud of kicks landing against my body, the sharp sting of bruises already beginning to form. I knew that much. I'd been hit hard, harder than usual. But I wasn't about to stay down.
The air was thick, cold, and it cut through me, somehow making everything feel more hopeless. The city never felt like it cared, not that I expected it to. The smell of exhaust, trash, and old cigarette smoke hung in the air, coating my throat and making it burn.
"Disgrace."
I looked up, barely able to focus, but I didn't have to try hard to know who had spoken. The voice was high-pitched, oozing with judgment. It came from her—a woman who seemed to look at me as if I was something she had stepped in.
I could hardly stand-my legs were shaking while I tried to get a hold of my body, but something snapped inside. Anger ran hot and fast in me,like fire. Without thinking, I reached for my shoe, and before I knew it, I threw it at her.
It hit her square in the chest.
She stumbled backward, her eyes wide with shock, before she turned and ran. The image of her retreat didn't make me feel any better; it merely reminded me of how readily people could turn their backs on you, how easily people judged without knowing the first thing about you.
The crowd around me didn't so much as bat an eyelid. Their eyes slid away, pretending they hadn't seen the wreck of a person sitting on the ground. I wasn't surprised. They never had cared. Never had, never would.
I pushed myself onto my feet, the weight of the world weighing in on me. My ribs screamed in protest, and I fought the dizzying waves of nausea back, but I didn't stop. I couldn't.
I picked up my scattered things from the ground, my bag, my jacket, and the last remains of what was supposed to be my dignity, and trudged forward. Every step was painful; a reminder that I wasn't going to be okay, I knew I wasn't going to make it to school today. Hell, I hadn't been to the place in weeks, but there was something within me that kept pushing-for the idea of a change, for the promise I had made to mom, who wanted so much for me to be different.
She'd wanted me to graduate, go onto to be a doctor, leave all thisbehind.
I'll be damned; it almost wasn't even a dream worth having.
The weight of the promise crushed me as I limped toward the only place that would give me shelter: the strip club. It wasn't ideal. It never was. But it was the only thing that kept me fed, kept me from starving.
I was already late, and I knew I'd get yelled at, but then, that wasn'tanything new, either. It was the same old routine, day in and day out. Every time I stepped into that place, I felt like a piece of me died just a little more.
The bouncer spotted me well before I reached the door. He eyed the bloodstains soaking into my shirt, the bruises already blossoming alongmy skin. He didn't ask what happened. He didn't care. In silence, he snagged my arm, hauling me inside without a word, while his grip on me remained tight and unsympathetic.
I don't think I had a fight left in me at that moment.
Inside, I slumped onto the rear room bench, the smell of sweat and disinfectant thick in the stale air. The walls seemed to be closing in around me, the silence just pressing in. I hated this place, and the people and loneliness it brought with it, but options were few. A few minutes later, the door creaked open; it had been opened without a knock. It was him - the boss.
"What the hell happened to you?" His voice cut through the silence, keen and accusatory. His eyes raked over me, landing on the blood and general dishevelment, and for a moment, I thought he might actually show some compassion. But I knew better.
He didn't care about me. Not really.
I didn't bother answering. Why bother? He wouldn't listen. He never did.
"Look at you," he spat, his eyes harsh as he took in the mess of me. "Your looks are the only thing that matters here, and you're bleeding all over my damn floor."
I felt the sting of his words, but I didn't flinch. I wouldn't. Not for him. Not for anyone.
"Yeah," I said, my voice dry, forced with the bite of sarcasm. "Thanks for the update. I'll be fine."
His stare was icy, unyielding. He leaned in further, his face inches away from mine, trying to intimidate me, but I didn't let him get under my skin. I stared right back at him, not cowering an inch.
"You better get your shit together," he growled low, his voice barely above a low, lethal menace. "Get changed. Get ready for your shift. Or you won't be here anymore.
The bile rose in my throat, and I wanted to scream at him, to tell him that I wasn't a damn object, something to be tossed around like a rag doll. But I didn't. Because I knew the truth: I needed this, couldn't lose itno matter how much I hated this life.
I forced a nod, my throat tight, the words of anger caught in my chest.
"Fine," I muttered. "I'll change."
He didn't say another word. Just turned and walked out, slamming the door behind him. The sound echoed in the empty room, leaving me alone again.
And in that moment, I felt it-the weight of everything pressing down on me. The anger, the hurt, the crushing loneliness.
But mostly, the isolation.
I was always alone.