MUD

"Mud", it's all the dark haired boy could think as a size thirteen collided with the center of his spine. He laid in the mud as the contents of his backpack spilled into the soiled alleyway. It's not like people didn't see, they just didn't care.

"Huh, lucky that's not me." They'd think. As his mugging continued, a familiar spark went off in his head. "What if I could fight back?" Of course, he knew he couldn't. Last time he tried was five years ago, and since then all of his birthday, Christmas, and lunch money was forfeited to this brute who carried a knife.

As the beating continued, the boy felt his mind wander. The pain long since faded to the back of his mind. Now, even early in his senior year, he always found himself wondering the same thing, "What if I could fight back?" Every time, he fantasized of nailing a backflip or two, and hitting the man so hard spit would fly from his mouth. Perhaps he could even hit a sweet roundhouse kick right to the side of his big fat head.

Just the thought of being his own hero was intoxicating and exhilarating all at once.

"You got any money on you, Jase?" chortled the attacker as he unloaded another kick onto the back of the boy, Jase whimpered out a muffled "yeah.... It's in the bag..."

The attacker's name was Richard Prescott, everyone just called him "Dick". Whether or not they meant it as a fun nickname was up for debate. He was likely a super-senior..... maybe super-duper-senior. Regardless, he was a grown man in a school full of kids. He never tried to attend school, so it's hard to feel bad for him. He was as equally privileged as everyone else. Even with a loving family, he was just a bad egg.

Jase stood up, his bright blue shirt now tinged a greenish-brown by the mud flooding the alleyway. Dick strutted over to the unzipped bag that had been thrown to the side in the scuffle, and took his time to count every last dollar he could find.

To an outsider, Dick likely resembled a caveman in the wild, only having a few unique thoughts in his head a day. If you took a dive, however, what you found was someone desperate for control. Someone seeking a semblance of power.

After all, it was all anyone wanted in this area. Dog eat dog, survival of the fittest, and every man for himself. The monotony was bliss for these people, but not for Jase. He hated the same bleak routine everyday, watching helplessly as the people all strolled by while he was robbed of all of his cash.

"You know, Jase, you're a 'real one'," said Dick as he emerged from the muddy alley to likely go find his dealer.

"FUCK YOU," shouted Jase. The only response the boy received was the mocking laughter of his long-time bully echoing throughout the alleyway.

…

…

The walk home for Jase was somber, to say the least. The thought of walking into his household and once again explaining to his parents what had happened was unbearable. The mud had dried on the walk back, and it left no surface unmarked. It had drenched his shirt, turning the calm breeze into further discomfort.

The one thing to hang his head on was his closing remarks to his mugger. They left him feeling the same intoxication he felt when he drifted into his mind. He knew he had what it took to fight back; he just wasn't ready to take a knife to the chest for fifty dollars.

Jase stopped at the front of his house. It was a flat pressed between the sides of other identical flats. The monotony continued as far as the eye could see, the same house, the same sidewalk, and the same muddy streets. Jase wiped what he could off his shirt one last time and took a few brisk steps up the stairs and through the door.