Numbers

I threw my hand out and felt the dirty stone under my hand, dragging against my skin and tearing back the flesh.
My side hit the ground, first after the hand. Then I guess my head, next. I felt it hit but I never registered it.

He took two steps forward, swinging his boot into my rib-cage, his leg following through the way you would kicking a football. The force rolled me over onto my back, and with his body silhouetted against the sky, I saw an inhuman giant beast. Giant shoulders and feet, tiny head and hands. But this was probably just the shock kicking in.

There was a sickly thump to right. The kind of noise you may have never heard before, but you just know. The body makes this nasty noise, when it drops loose. You can't describe it, but you can feel it, from the metallic taste in your mouth to the core of your bones.

I rolled to my side, crying out in pain when my bones pushed that broken-glass feeling into my insides, and forced myself to my knees. I pushed out a hand, bleeding palm and bloodied knuckles, and yanked on his t-shirt, trying to pull him over. Instead the fabric gave way, and the monstrous black shadows barked out a harsh laugh as they kicked me on top of his defenceless back. Hot tears rolled down my face at this last indignity, and I tried to cover over his scarred back with his ripped shirt, feebly trying to cover the dull red scars of the five-digit numbers cut into his bony white back.



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