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Man in the White Suit

"Help me!"

Two little words that mean everything to me at this moment. Two little words that I feel will save my life.

Somehow, one hand manages to escape its hold. All I need is that one hand. I jab whoever is behind me in the ribs with my elbow, all the anger and fear and pain put into it. More than just escaping, I want them to feel everything I've felt inside of my heart. He yelps, falling back and letting go of my other arm. It isn't happening in slow motion like you'd see in the movies or read in books. It is quick, with no room for mistakes or hesitation. I must leave everything to instinct, fearing all but the best possible solution.

My fist comes forward and punches the guy in the nose who ripped my shirt. The other hand swings around with as much force as I can manage, and it contacts someone's throat, throwing him off balance and into a coughing fit. I lean back, kicking the person in front of me, anchoring myself against the ground with my elbows to get more force into the kick, and getting some distance between us. If nothing else, I will go down fighting. My body is throbbing and aching, and I'm sure I broke a knuckle or two, but my blood is boiling, fear is soaring, and I refuse to be weak.

They all fall to the ground, one by one, groaning in pain and shock. I'm tired, almost too tired. Regrettably, I'm afraid that I don't have enough energy to get away. I manage to scramble and stumble over my own feet as I try to back up. I bump into someone.

Another one?!

"Please, stop!" I scream as I spin around to face the newcomer. This person is tall. I must tilt my head back to look up at them. I hurriedly cover whatever is exposed and whimper. I don't have the strength left to fight someone as prominent as him.

His clothes look much more expensive than the hooligans I bumped into and much more dignified. His white suit and tie and shoes sparkle under the moonlit night.

"What are you peasants doing on the walk?" His voice is smooth and stern, and he spits the words peasants as if the mere thought of the word brought him distaste. Even though he'd asked, he sounded like he didn't really care for the answer. He holds a bored expression on his face as he stares at the men on the ground. It's like he hasn't even noticed me at all.

The group stares for a few seconds, a cowardly expression taking over their features. Another man, wearing a pink shirt and tie under his white suit, steps forward, a stunningly beautiful woman clinging to each arm. He's flirting with them in a sweet, charming voice. The boys must have recognized him too because once they see him, they take off running. In the blink of an eye, they're gone.

I sit there, trembling in disbelief in front of the man who just saved me, far from decent. I'm too disturbed and traumatized to even think of thanking him. "Oh my, seems we have a streaker." Comments the second man in his delicate voice. My head shoots up to look at him. The two women are glaring at me with such antipathy like I am nothing but feces on the side of the road. The guy that the women are clinging to, on the other hand, is staring at me with great interest, slightly bewildered by my state of wear as If he hadn't just seen the men who did this to me.

Strength slowly building back into my legs, I spring to my feet and bow quickly, arms covering as much of my chest as I can manage. I don't know what I'm supposed to do in this situation because it was very apparent that these men are much richer than the place that I have come from. "I-I'm not a streaker, sir." I straighten back up to study them. "Th-Thank you... um... for scaring them off and saving me." I can't help but stutter. They have such a strong ambiance about them that it makes me feel slightly intimidated. I don't know how else I'm supposed to thank the more prosperous part of society or if there even is any difference between the two.