The Boy in the Alley

After I packed my lunch and stepped out of McDonald’s, the streets were unusually quiet. The sun was still out, but something about the silence made my skin prickle. I adjusted my bag and started walking toward home.

That’s when I heard it.

A scream.

“HELP!! HELP!! SOMEBODY, PLEASE!!”

A boy’s voice. Small. Desperate. Shaking with fear.

I didn’t think twice. I ran. Sprinting down the alleyway beside the main road, dodging a broken crate and a tossed-out bike. My heartbeat thundered in my ears as I turned the corner and—

There they were.

A group of boys, maybe five or six of them, surrounding someone on the ground. A young boy — couldn’t be older than ten or eleven. He was curled up like a ball, arms over his head, blood on his lip and bruises already forming on his cheek. One of them kicked him again, laughing like it was a joke.

“HEY!” I shouted, stepping in without hesitation. “You! STOP! How dare you bully that boy?!”

The tallest boy in the group turned, eyebrows raised in amusement. He looked me up and down like I was just some fly buzzing near his ear.

“And who are you supposed to be? Go away, or we’ll beat you too. Just like we did to him!” He snorted and the rest of them laughed behind him like trained hyenas.

I clenched my fists.

“You wanna hit me?” I said, stepping forward with fire in my eyes. “Fine. Let’s make this fun. I challenge you all. If even one of you can slap me — just once — I’ll do whatever you say. But if you can’t… you apologize to him. And you never bother him again. Deal?”

Their faces shifted — from surprise to confusion to cocky grins.

“You’re on,” one of them said. “Don’t cry when we mess up that pretty face!”

They came at me all at once. Big mistake.

The first one tried to grab my arm — I ducked.

Second one swung for my shoulder — I slid to the side.

Third boy went for a dramatic high-five-to-the-face — I crouched and he spun around like a malfunctioning robot.

They were fast, but I was faster. I didn’t hit. I didn’t touch. All I did was dodge, twist, flip back, lean left, jump sideways. They started bumping into each other, swinging fists in the air like confused pigeons in a thunderstorm.

One tripped over a fallen backpack and crashed into another. Two tried to corner me and ended up bonking heads.

I stood in the center of the chaos, hands in my jacket pockets, smiling like I was in a dance battle.

Ten minutes passed.

They were panting, red-faced, soaked in sweat.

I hadn’t even broken a sweat.

The leader finally groaned and waved his hand in defeat. “Fine! FINE! We’re sorry, okay?!”

They all turned to the boy they had beaten up and apologized in mumbles, eyes downcast.

And then they ran off — limping, huffing, probably questioning all their life choices.

I knelt next to the boy. His knees were scraped, one eye a little swollen, but he was conscious.

“Hey. Are you okay? Can you walk?”

He nodded faintly.

“My house isn’t far,” I said gently. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He followed without a word, limping slightly. When we reached my place, I guided him inside and sat him down carefully. I grabbed the first-aid kit and started treating his wounds. I cleaned the blood from his lip, applied ointment to his scraped arms, and wrapped a bandage over his elbow.

He didn’t speak. Not once.

After cleaning him up, I handed him a pen and paper. “Can you write your parents’ phone number? I’ll call them.”

He scribbled the number quickly and handed it back.

I called. A deep voice answered. I explained everything — that their son had been bullied and that he was safe with me.

The man didn’t ask a single question.

Just said, “Someone will come to pick him up,” and hung up.

No thank you. No concern. No emotion.

I stared at the phone for a few seconds, stunned. Then I looked at the boy again. He was sitting quietly in the corner of my room, hugging his knees, eyes distant. Still hadn’t said a word.

One hour passed.

He still sat there, silent. Like a ghost. A small ghost that had seen too much for his age.

Then — the doorbell rang.

I opened the door. A man in a black suit stood outside.

“I’ve come to pick up the young master,” he said.

I blinked. “Young… master?”

Before I could ask anything else, the boy stood up, walked past me silently, and followed the man out.

He didn’t even say goodbye.

Didn’t even tell me his name.

The door closed. And the silence returned.

I looked at the leftover McDonald’s bag still sitting on the table and finally picked it up. I sat down and ate slowly. Everything felt strange. Like I had just stumbled into some kind of secret world that didn’t belong to mine.

I took a nap. Just an hour. And by the time I woke up, the house was alive again. Mom had returned from her shift, exhausted but smiling. My brother came home, tired but trying to look strong. We all sat together and shared how our days had gone.

I didn’t mention the drama. Didn’t talk about Shini or the whispers or the alley fight.

Just said, “It was normal.”

After dinner, I went to my room. Finished my homework.

And just before I fell asleep, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

That boy. Silent. Bleeding. Alone.

I don’t know why, but… I saw myself in him.

And I had a feeling this wasn’t the last time I’d see him.

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