“Where am I,” I moan, placing my hand on my aching head. “Where am I? What is going on?”
I open my eyes for only a second before a bright light blinds me. I scream and shield myself. Trying to get away, I get up but fall back down, rolling down onto trash bags. The bags rip open when I fall onto them, and now I am covered in trash.
I scream again and push myself up. I toss away some trash sticking to me before looking all around.
“An alleyway? What am I doing in an alley?
Feeling weak all of a sudden, I lean against the wall for support. Breathing in and out, in and out, I try and think back to what happened before I ended up. Only, as I try to think back, a weird pain creeps its way into my head. At first, it’s small, almost like an itch, but it quickly grows, becoming too much too soon.
“Stop,” I scream, forced onto the ground again, my hands squeezing my head. “Stop, stop, stop! Please stop!”
Despite my closed eyes, I can feel tears leak through. The pain is too much to handle. It is unbearable. It feels like my head is being squeezed, yet also being pulled in a million different directions. I am beyond thankful when the headache stop and I can open my eyes again. Despite the headache begin gone, I still feel very sick. I feel like throwing up. My arms and legs feel like they are on fire, but also like they are frozen in ice.
I have to push through the pain. I have to get out of here and get some help. I crawl up the wall and move against it as I walk toward an exit.
“Almost there,” I say, everything getting a little bit better. Still breathing in and out, I push myself off the wall and slowly wobble out. Stumbling as I step onto a cold empty street, I look around to see where I am.
“I’m in a city,” I say. “What am I doing in a city? What city is this?”
It’s nighttime right now. The street I am standing on is being lit up by a row of street lamps. High above me are skyscrapers, the sides of them dotted in lights. Next to me however are what look like abandoned buildings. Most of them are covered in spray paints, and it appears that almost every window and door are boarded up with wooden planks.
As I keep on looking around, I notice there does not seem to be signs of anyone else nearby. There is not so much as a sound being heard, and there are no cars anywhere on the street. Nevertheless, I try shouting anyway.
“Hello? Hello. Is anyone there? I need some help here. Please.”
The headache coming back without any warning, I drop to my knees, my hands crushing my head. Crying now, I think about bashing my head into the street over and over in the hope that I could kill myself and stop the pain. Before I can, however, the headache, the pain just stop. Like when it came, it just stop without any warning.
“Did you hear that,” someone says, coming around the corner of a building. “It sounds like someone is screaming.”
“Yeah,” someone else replies. “Come on, let’s go.”
Hearing some footsteps, I smile and wave my arm in the air.
“Over here. I’m over here.”
I am glad to see two men run right toward me. A fat one with an orange beard is the first to reach me. When he does, he knees down and helps me sit upright.
“Hey Chris,” he starts, “It’s a kid.”
“Yeah Peter,” Chris says, a thin man with long hair. He kneels down in front of me. “What the hell is a kid doing out here in the middle of the night?”
“Who cares,” Peter replies, pushing me aside and reaching into my pockets. “I’m starving. Let’s see if he had any money.”
“What the hell,” I say, pushing Peter away. “Get away from me.”
I push Chris away, but when I do, Peter himself kicks me in the head and knocks me to the ground.
“Come on,” Peter says, helping Chris back up. Once up, the two then try to rob me. I struggle to get away from them, but Chris grabs me by the shirt collar and punches me across the face. Falling back down onto the street, I cannot do anything when the two reach into my pockets.
“Got anything,” Peter asks, pulling out my jacket pockets.
“No,” Chris snarls, tossing away some pieces of papers he found. “Just trash. Stupid, stupid trash.”
“Trash,” I thought, looking at the papers as the wind starts to pick them up. “No, I need those. I need them. Get away from me. Get away from me. Get away from me now.”
I start to feel something build up in my hands. It feels like something is about burst out from them. Focusing, I pull back my arm. Peter looking at me, I punch him in the chest and somehow, all of a sudden, sent him flying into the air.
“What the hell,” Chris shouts before I punch him with my other hand. Yelling as he slides back into the alley where I woke up, I look at Peter just as he drops onto the street. Somehow, I punched him so hard, he sailed through the air before landing what look like ten feet away from me.
“What the,” I say, staring at my hands and then at Peter. Strangely, I feel more anger than relief. I push myself up and walk to where Peter is.
The bastard is moaning and groaning as I walk to him. Holding his head, I stomp on his chest as hard as I can. Screaming and coughing now, I place my hands around his head.
“Nooo,” he begs, looking me in the eyes as I somehow did the thing again. I fire from both my hands and watch as Peter falls to the ground. Once he does, I turn and walk over to Chris.
“What the hell,” I scream, clutching my chest. “What the hell did that kid hit me with? My chest.”
My chest feels like it was just hit by a damn freight train. I pull back my head and yell into the sky. Lowering my head, I think I see Peter standing at end of the alleyway. Waving at the guy, I yell.
“Hey. Hey Peter. Over here, man. Come on, help me up.”
“Help you up,” someone else repeats, the voice not even sound human. “Help you up? Help you up.”
Stomping his way toward me, each step he takes shaking the ground, the kid picks me up, not even breaking a sweat.
“Help you,” he says, sounding like a growling dog. “Like when I needed your help.”
Shaking me back and forth, left and right, I grab at his hands and try to pry myself free, but his grip is unbreakable. Out of options, I try punching the kid.
My fist hitting his face, I scream and pull it back. Looking at my hand, I see red bumps all over my knuckles. The kid on the other kid didn’t even look unharmed.
Pulling me closer, until we are face-to-face, he places his hand on my forehead.
“Please,” I say, clapping my hands together and praying. “No. No. Please. Don’t. I’m sorry. We’re sorry. We’re sorry we tried to rob you. Please. Please don’t kill me.”
The kid stays quiet for a while, his hand still on my forehead. It felt like an eternity before he says something.
“Where am I,” he asks, pulling me closer. “What is this city?”
“What? It’s San Francisco.”
“Yeah. San Francisco. San Francisco, California.”
The kid stays quiet again for some time, looking around.
“Thank you,” he says, turning back to face me. He then pulls back his hand.