Song: Mystery of You by Red
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The streets were cold and blanketed in a thin layer of frost. The cover of night darkened his features and wrapped him in its silky, enticing shadows. He crept down the streets like a stealthy predator that roams the night freely.
The dead of night is his favorite part of the hours. It is in the night where he attacks and thrives like the predator he is.
But this time he isn't hunting mankind, he's hunting money. Cold hard cash that will ensure his survival for another day.
Turning down one of the dark streets, he walks a ways down the streets paved in crumbling pavement. Beauty used to live in this town, but that was long ago. That was long ago way before evil had a chance to shadow the city with his rotting hand.
But time passed and a once thriving neighborhood fell victim to crime and destruction. Now, the neighborhood has dangerous predators residing in it. Overrun by illegal drugs, gangs, human trafficking, and other dark issues.
But for the man, this is his life, and this is all he's ever known.
The gang he's apart of is the only people he can confidently call his family. They had picked him up off his feet when he escaped from the human trafficking trade years back. They had given him money, a roof over his head, and food.
But of course, that all came with a price.
To be excepted into the gang, he had to commit murder.
He was desperate for a new way of life, desperate to just fit in and be loved, or at least, cared about. So at just fifteen years old, he took the life of an old man walking the streets one night to prove his worth to the gang.
They immediately excepted him and took him in.
But the fifteen year old boy's eyes never left the old man's lifeless eyes even amidst the celebrations and congratulations for joining the gang. He would never forget that day, and he didn't.
Because to this very day he is haunted by nightmares that keep him up. His guilty conscience feeds his nightmares that mainly consists of the man he murdered when he was fifteen.
Perhaps, maybe that's why he's awake at night than rather the day. Maybe on the inside he's just a little boy who is frightened of the dark, and the nightmares aren't as scary in the day than they are at night.
When the past becomes too much to bear, he always has a bottle of alcohol of some sort by his side to drown it out.
But as of now, he's got money to make and a reputation to uphold for his gang.
The moon is full that night, so no light is needed to be able to see the scenery around him.
Turning down a narrow street, he winds up in an old junkyard. Piles of rotting, dusty furniture are piled on top of each other and rusty bumpers of cars are scattered along the area. Tires and bags of trash are scattered about, but the man halts when he comes to a large open space.
Other men are gathered in a circle, shouting and cheering their enthusiasm into the sky as men fight each other in the middle. Money is tossed around as bets are placed, and the winner of the fights taking all.
The unknown man smirks and steps forwards. "It is my turn to show you how it's done." He says with sheer confidence.
Some of the men bellow with laughter. "Well come on then, pretty boy. Show us how it's done." One of the men says.
The man grins darkly and shrugs his leather jacket off. He then pulls off his plain white T-shirt, and soon finds himself standing shirtless in the middle, facing his opponent who is as equally as bare as he is.
Both men are ripped with muscle and power. His opponent is just a little shorter in stature than he is, and now, both men stand tall as they face each other. Their broad shoulders move up and down with each intake of breath.
Their fists are clenched at their sides and the unknown man takes his fighting stance which is strong and sturdy. His opponent remains still, crouching a bit and supporting his weight with his dominate foot.
The men around them cheer them on, craving to see blood and violence.
The unknown man's opponent swings first, but he quickly ducks and lands a punch right into his gut. His opponent stumbles back, taken back by his quick reflexes.
Under the moonlight they fought. The unknown man's punches were skilled and direct. It was almost as if it were a violent dance being performed by an equally as violent and dangerous predator.
Blood was sprinkled onto the ground like little rain drops. Sweat dripped down both of the men's chest that heaved with exertion. Their hair was a mess and stuck to their foreheads from the sweat.
For a few moments, both men appear to be equally matched. Both were skilled with their techniques and punches. Both were quick, stealthy, and muscular. But as time passed, it became obvious which one of the men had more endurance.
The unknown man's opponent began to tire. His eyes were becoming hazy and unfocused, and his blood dripped from his nose and ran down into the cracks of his lips.
The unknown man used that as an advantage, and bringing his knee up, he rammed it right into his opponent's gut. The man collapsed and coughed because the wind was knocked out of him. The unknown man's eyes seemed to glaze over with the intent to kill when he saw that his opponent was writhing on the ground.
In a flash, the unknown man straddled his victim. He landed punches against the sides of his face, his head whipping to the side painfully. Popping sounds are heard as the man's victim's vertebrae cracks with each punch.
The unknown man's mind flashes with images. The man under him is no longer some random street fighter, but his main abuser and tormentor growing up. Suddenly the man under him is every single man and woman that abused and touched him growing up. Suddenly the man under him becomes the image of what he made humanity to be.
Evil. Selfish. Greedy. Deceitful. Abusive. Perverted. Lustful.
And suddenly, he finds himself killing the man that is none of those things. He is killing the man that just wants to survive too. He is killing the man that just wants to feed his little six year old daughter back at home.
Maybe the two men that are fighting aren't that different from each other. Both want to survive and both come from horrific pasts. But right now, the unknown man isn't aware of that. He just sees him as his abusers that fucked him up in the head and body.
The man is soon pried off of his victim before he can cause further damage. He shouts obscenities and yells as it takes several men to pry him off and hold him back. It's almost as if he's a beast, his power knows no bounds.
But then the fog clears. His mind is opened when he looks around. The man coughing blood on the cold, dusty ground is not one of his abusers but merely a man living on the streets.
He is paid fifty dollars for winning the fight. His shoulders move up and down with each labored breath he takes and, clenching his fists, he turns and walks away. He picks his shirt and jacket up off the ground and doesn't put it back on. Instead, he let's the cool night's air dry his sweat from his body.
He slinks back into the darkness, the velvety shadows hiding his wounds he has earned from the fight.
He tucks the cash safely away into his jean pocket and pulls his shirt back over his head. He then slides his leather jacket back on and rides off into the night on his motorcycle. The wind dries his sweaty wind swept hair and cools his body down.
His heart is still coming down from the adrenaline rush that his fight produced. He can feel it thundering in his chest, and for that, he is grateful. He's relieved he is still alive because often times, he feels like a soulless monster.
And maybe he is.
Maybe he is a soulless monster who finds comfort in his own beating heart.
The roads are windy on the way back to his family, his gang. He risks driving on the local high way. He knows cops, though they're not after him yet, he knows he may be a suspect for illegal drug trades and other suspicious activities.
But tonight, he just wants to go home and rest, so he takes the quicker, easier way home.
The high way.
He speeds along the high way that is nearly empty as it is late at night. His surroundings whiz by and becomes a blur. The road beneath his tires blend into the night and eat up distance as he becomes closer and closer to the place he calls home.
But then he slows down when he sees a path of destruction. Inky skid marks are engraved into the road, and his eyes travel up to meet the scene of a car crash. It had just happened as far as he could tell, because the wheels are still spinning on one of the cars that lies on its side.
He sees smoke and fire billowing out one of the cars, and he pulls over to the side of the road.
He shouldn't care.
He shouldn't care about the lives that are trapped in the car that night.
He shouldn't care about about humanity, he shouldn't care because all he's ever done was take.
Not save.
But tonight will be different, because for whatever reason, he pulls over to the side of the road and walks towards the carnage, but not before flipping open his out dated flip phone and dialing 911.
"I would like to report a crash." He says quietly. He quickly gives the operator the details before heading over.
He sees a woman, badly injured, dragging herself towards the burning car and trying to free someone. She cries in desperation and he almost feels bad for her.
Almost.
Glass has rained down on the earth like snow, and it crunches beneath his feet as he walks towards the woman. Her blonde hair is messy and blood and glass is stuck into it. Tears, or blood, he can't quite tell, streams down her face in messy waves.
As gently as he can muster, (as he's not used to gentleness nor has he ever experienced gentleness) he grips the woman's arms and pulls her into him. He doesn't want to injure her further so he truly does his best to be as tender to her as possible.
With her trapped against his chest, he drags her away from the burning vehicle and hushes her as he lays her down onto her back.
She winces and cries in pain.
His eyes travel to her body. Glass is protruding from her side, dangerously close to one of her lungs. Her clothes are ripped in some places from the glass, and she's a bloody mess. Her eyes, which are wide with pain and desperation, stare up at his.
Had the situation not been as serious as this he would have found her to be beautiful, but right now, his mind is focused on the survival of this woman and the life trapped in the burning vehicle.
He looks her dead in the eyes and speaks. "Do not move. Any further movement could kill you. Help is on the way." His voice is low and serious, and the woman can't help but obey his command.
He runs over to the burning vehicle, and seeing that glass is blocking him and the child that's trapped inside, he takes his gun out of his waistband and rams the butt of it into the glass. It shatters immediately and he coughs when smoke enters his lungs.
But that doesn't stop him from pulling out the little child which is only about eight years old. The man's heart clenches when he sees the child in such critical condition. For whatever reason, the man has a soft spot for children.
But of course, he wold never admit that.
He lays the child down on the road and flipping his arm face up, he presses two fingers against the boy's wrist, silently pleading the God he hopes to exist for a pulse. Any sign of life, he will gladly except.
But he's met with emptiness.
No low vibration of life is felt beneath his fingers.
Just emptiness.
He clenches his jaw, hating that death had to come so soon for such a young life. He clenches his jaw, hating the fact that by the looks of it, the woman lying on her back across from him had caused this.
When he looks up at the woman, he sees that she's looking at him through hazy, tear filled vision. He knows what she's silently asking, and he shakes his head slowly in response.
The sound of blaring sirens become closer and closer, and like a spooked wild animal, the man flees into the night, back onto his motorcycle once more.
For he does not want to be found.