Survival in Sermont

Chapter One

P.O.V.-September

"I swear I want to rip your freakin' throat out," blares through the old, static-y radio.

I grimace as my bandaged fists connect with the punching bag. Again. And again until eventually, blood seeps through the dirtied ace wrap. I stand still, my chest heaving, and let the bag swing like a pendulum.

I unscrew my water bottle and down it in one go. Sweat drips down my face and body, stinging my eyes and causing my shirt to cling to my chest.

Nothing calms my mind like beating the living shit out of something. Call it violent. Call it aggressive and unstable. Call it whatever you want, but as for me, I'll tell it as it is; stress-reducing.

Maybe it's because the faces of enemies run like perfectly painting pictures through your mind. Or maybe it's that every hit releases pent-up emotion you hold in until it's almost too late. Nevertheless, stress will be reduced.

The blood-stained white punching bag slows to a stop in front of me. I lay my hand on it and pat it softly.

"Good workout, buddy," I proudly tell the bag.

Who needs therapy when you have exercise? Blood pumps through veins as sweat traces your skin. Your heart races as your mind grows blank. Emotions escape as muscles push harder with every swift movement.

I throw a towel over my shoulders as I unwrap my knuckles. My nose scrunches at the sight. Blue and purple bruises surround open wounds as blood release from them. Rewrapping my hands, I flex my fingers and wiggle them. I pop my knuckles with my neck and back as well.

Shutting the radio off, I step out from a cellar hidden beneath my family's apartment. The old, rotten wooden doors creak as I open it slowly. Peering out from it, I check for passers-by. Per usual, nobody is visual.

As I stand to my full height, I stretch greatly and yawn. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I decide to slide on my gold aviator glasses. Who says you can't see without style?

Pulling on my brown knitted cardigan, I throw on the hood and wrap it warmly around my body, as it hangs down to mid-calf. Unfolding dark ripped jeans, I pull them on over my shorts. I then tug a navy blue scarf around my neck, almost covering my gold chains.

Protected from the cold, I step into the open. Shining street lights and bright shop logos meet me. Pedestrians zoom past and cars whirl by as everyone tries to avoid the freezing snow.

Others may hate the current weather, but I can't help but enjoy it. It makes the rush of working out that much more satisfying. Your body radiates heat as you sweat, but immediately, the harsh wind dries it, cooling your body. Nothing beats it.

I walk down Riders Avenue with my hands stuffed in my pockets. As everyone rushes through life, I squeeze past them, refusing the urge to pickpocket. It's a necessary life-skill I picked up from the streets, but something I hate to do. When you come from the poor part of town, life tends to work against your favor, so you gotta do what you gotta do.

Designer purse after designer purse, top-notch wallet after top-wallet wallet catches my eye. Each must contain enough gorgeous money to buy a dozen yachts. With money like that, I could escape this shitty life of mine.

I squeeze my eyes shut and clench my fist. My breath becomes ragged as I resist the ever-growing urge to steal. At last, the desire subsides and I open my eyes again.

The grocery store sign glows from a distance. I pat my pants and become relieved when I rub my wallet. I pull it out and hesitantly check inside. At the sight of the contents, I perk up a bit. $30 sits in my wallet, which means I should be able to make this week's dinners for my siblings and me.