
New Yorker, Pt. 4: Jackson Ave
*Closes Umbrella*
"Where you from?"
A teen-aged boy approaches you from your right, blocking your escape.
It was a rainy afternoon, a little darker than usual outside. You’re next to the Jackson Ave train station, with a chicken spot to your right, and a clear path to your left.
You’re lost as to where you’re friend’s building is at. You were planning to cyph with a few friends.
"From the stadium.", you nervously respond. You immediately realize that was the dumbest thing you could say in this situation.
He approaches you even closer, clearly entering your personal space.
"Give me your phone."
"Nah, we don't gotta do this bro."
6 more teen-aged boys approach you from your left, and now you're cornered.
As soon as you put two and two together, you come up with two scenarios that you embrace.
1. Today, I’m going to die.
2. I’m about to get jumped.
The second dude from your right comes up to you, and the others follow suit.
He pulls out a short blade, and sticks it slowly into your left abdomen.
Your left hand reaches the blade, the only thing it could hold to prevent it from causing any more damage (I sound like a Pokémon trainer, I know).
You feel a sharp pain in your middle finger, the blade has partly cut into your finger.
"Give me your phone or imma count to three."
You see people walk past this ambush, and they quickly glance at you, with their stares of pity.
You think to yourself "I’ll yell at 'one’, for help."
"3."
"2."
Right when you have the urge to open your mouth to yell, everything goes black, then white.
You’ve been decked in the face faster than you can call shotgun.
Your vision adjusts to reality and then...
Everything goes black again. Your head bangs into the cement block supporting the train station.
That, was a hard punch.
Nothing you could do but take it. I mean, 7 to 1? No way you can win this, even if you tried. Fighting back would just make it worse.
The first dude who approached you, tried to reach into your right hoodie pocket, to take your phone, but your right hand came into the rescue and held your phone.
Everything went black, again
Your glasses fly off your face, hearing it land in your vicinity.
"What's the code?!"
While you're getting punched...
"What's the fucking code?!"
"What code?!" you yell.
Black...
You hear sporadic footsteps.
They dipped.
Water drops... Silence.
You let go of yourself for a few seconds, processing what just happened.
You open your eyes, the chicken spot right in the center of your vision, sideways.
You're on the floor, powerless.
You feel blood trickling down the right side of your philtrum, you hear the water drops again.
"Hey, you okay? You need help?"
Such an angelic voice, that you smile a bit.
You get up slowly, pick up your glasses, now bent, but surprisingly, the glass(es) aren't cracked.
"No thanks, I'm good.”
