"Aww, what's wrong? Does the big baby need someone to protect her?" One of the boys taunted.
I raised my head up. Yes, my eyes were blurring, but excuse me if I didn't have a great pain tolerance. "Fu*k off!" I spat.
David's eyes narrowed. "Who do you think you're talking to, little girl?" he asked, a sadistic twist to his lips.
I attempted to swing a punch, a half-hearted endeavour if anything. Lucky for me, he was so distracted by laughing with his cronies (I needed something to make me feel stronger, and if that something happened to be calling grown boys names, so be it) that it actually landed on his face, hitting his cheekbone.
My knuckles stung, and I made a break for it as he raised a stunned hand to his face, his two friends staring at me.
My legs drove me as far as possible. There was pain shooting from my bruised and battered body, but this, this I could do. I could ignore pain, just not in the moment.
When I found what was deemed a safe place by my frazzled mind, my back hit the rough brick wall, and I slid to the dirtied ground, my jeans probably getting smeared with dust and mud and crushed cigarette butts. At this point, I didn't really care.
I assessed my injuries quickly. Nothing was broken or sprained or fractured. Just sore and badly bruised.
I struggled to get up, and wrapped an arm around my ribs. Wiping blood from my split lip, I resisted the urge to grab a smoke.
Instead, I shuttered my emotions closed and limped home.