Faraway
Table of Contents
Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Chapter 58 Chapter 59 Chapter 60 Chapter 61 Chapter 62 Chapter 63 Chapter 64 Chapter 65 Chapter 66 Chapter 67 Chapter 68 Chapter 69 Chapter 70 Chapter 71 Chapter 72 Chapter 73 Chapter 74 Chapter 75 Chapter 76 Chapter 77 Chapter 78 Chapter 79 Chapter 80 Chapter 81 Chapter 82 Chapter 83 Chapter 84 Chapter 85 Chapter 86 Chapter 87 Chapter 88 Chapter 89 Chapter 90 Chapter 91Chapter 8
A young black man was violently brought back to the wall by his three bullies, who were clearly bigger than him. One of the gang members was threatening him with a raised fist while the other two stood beside their friend, grinning wickedly at their victim and asking.
"How long do we have to wait until your food doesn't taste like shit?" The leader, appearing around 28 and wearing an old leather jacket and torn jeans, sneered at the young man cowering before them. "I wanted to give you a chance to learn a lesson the easy way, but I'm getting tired of waiting," he growled. "So what will it be?"
Tom is never a person of violence, especially when he was not the one to start the fight. He was a simple man, only wanting to live a peaceful life and not trouble anyone. Sadly for him, these same trio always enjoy picking him for no reason other than their twisted form of entertainment in picking on the weak.
He can never understand why some human beings would resort to this type of thing when they can have everything they ever wanted without the need to steal or even harm others in this Utopian of society. It was a question he could never truly grasp or understand.
The leader of these two bullies was none other than Elvis, a tough and sadistic man who simply wanted to hurt others out of his own enjoyment. He and his goons always try to find the easiest target, and Tom just so happened to be one of them. "What's wrong, Tom? Scared to answer us?" Elvis jeered, "We're not going to hurt you; just tell me what you've eaten today." The sudden change of topic had made Tom's heart skip a beat.
What is this? Tom thought to himself, not understanding this question in the slightest, "E-excuse me?" He stuttered a bit, praying to God that he'd wake up from this nightmare. "W-w-what are you asking me of?" His icy stare locked onto the leader's eyes. If t he made one wrong answer, he might get the worst beating out of his life imaginable. And that thought alone was enough to make him sweat.
"Your food," the leader repeated, his voice dripping with mockery. "Didn't you hear me the first time? Elvis eyes were icy cold, the very picture of menace, as he and his boys never took off their intimidating gazes like a predator stalking its prey, refusing to give the poor boy a chance to breathe from the way they loomed over him.
"Tell us!" One of the bullies shouted, his voice a coarse bark, "Or else we'll make sure you'll spend the next week in the hospital," smiling icy grins stretched across their faces, the cruelty of their words sending a shiver down the young man's spine. The threat was all too real, their reputations preceding them, and based on their way of carrying themselves, it will be a matter of time before the beatings become much worse without getting a proper answer.
Gulping nervously, he looked down at the floor, fear and dread clawing at his insides. What are they talking about? Why do they want to know what he ate for breakfast? Has he done something to deserve this?
This has been happening every time they get bored, so regardless of the answer, he will get a beating in one way or another. So there is no point in giving them a correct answer, as he is getting his ass kicked anyway. Still, it won't hurt to try to not get beaten up again.
Exhaling deeply, he decided to go along with their games: "I had a bowl of cereal for breakfast." The stern look of the leader did not lessen, the muscles in his jaw ticking as the young man's words failed to satisfy him.
Making him think that he must have said the wrong thing, "and a glass of milk," he quickly added as an afterthought, hoping that his response would be enough to placate the leader and his goons. Wishing to not get himself beaten again, he kept his head down, silently praying for the ordeal to end.
His heart was pounding in his chest, the sound of it echoing in his ears as he held his breath, waiting for the reaction. The silence that followed was deafening, each tick of the second hand seeming to stretch into infinity, the tension in the air thick enough to cut with a knife.
The young man's eyes darted between the three figures, his mind racing as he tried to read the unspoken messages in their expressions, the subtle twitches of muscle betraying their thoughts.
It felt like forever, never ending, time standing still. The young man's heart thumped painfully in his chest. He could feel the beads of perspiration trickling down his temple and the taste of bile rising in his throat.
In time, he got used to the beating. But a part of him believed that he would die eventually from the abuse he was forced to endure. Truthfully, Tom is beginning to grow tired of the cycle, and he isn't sure how much more he can take.
The constant state of fear and anxiety that comes with bullying is a burden that is slowly suffocating him. What's more, there's the chance of dying from whatever plan they are going to do to him next. So whether he gets severely hurt is alright for him as long as he is alive.
That's all it matters to him.
Closing his eyes, tears welling up in the corner of his eyes, he whispered a silent prayer: "Please, just let me live, just one more day." The world spun around him, the sounds of the city a distant hum, the roar of the bullies a dull rumble.
A single tear slipped down his cheek, splashing onto the pavement as he braced himself for the inevitable. The pain he knew would come, the physical and emotional scars he would bear as a reminder of his weakness, He doesn't want to fight, nor is he an he an advocate of violence.
He's a gentleman through and through, but he also knows he can't keep running from this constant torment and that it's time to stand his ground and fight back, as his father once told him.
Its matter of when he should it when the bullying and abuse has become too much to handle, the moment he'll know he's strong enough to break free. Tom just doesn't know when to fight back, and if he does, he doesn't know how.
Then they began laughing, the sound harsh and cruel, as if the joke were on him. It is a sound that will always haunt him—the cruel laughter of his tormentors. That alone made the young man open his eyes in horror, unable to comprehend their reason for this:
"What's so funny?" Tom croaked, his voice shaking and his heart sinking as he realized the futility of his plea. The answer was written all over their faces; it was his own answer that had elicited such a response, making him so tired of having to endure this torment.
Behind his blank and horrified look lies a growing rage, a fire that's been smoldering deep within him, igniting with the cruelty of the situation. The young man's fists clenched at his sides, the whites of his knuckles showing through the strain.
For all the ideals of being a gentleman by being polite and kind to others while never being a man of violence, Tom is beginning to have second thoughts about this when this bullying has become too much for him to handle. He doesn't care about the consequences of fighting back, not anymore. He is tired of being the punching bag for these guys.
Elvis and his friends then slowly approached him, their laughter fading, replaced by a malicious sneer: "You don't understand, do you?" The leader said, his voice dripping with condescension, "You see, your food tasted so bad we couldn't eat it. In fact, this is the reason why we always fucking target your ass like 24/7, and now, you're finally giving us the reason why," he laughed, the sound of his amusement grating on the young man's nerves.
"So, Tommy, what makes us tick that your food tastes so bad?"
Tom's eyes widened in realization, a cold knot of dread forming in his stomach. "I apologize, it's not—" A sudden slap on his right cheek interrupted his apology. The blow was so hard that he could taste blood in his mouth, the sting of the impact echoing in his ears. He couldn't believe it—the unending abuse, the insanity of the situation.
His beginning to lose the last shred of dignity he had left, and he was not sure if he would be able to stand up again after this. Let alone be a calm and reasonable person before going berserk.
"You're a waste of space, Tom," Elvis spat, "and I'm getting real sick of you taking up air we could breathe. You're nothing but a burden, and it's high time you learned that." With a backhand, the leader connected with the young man's kidneys, the force of the blow sending him tumbling to the ground.
Sharp pain lanced through Tom's side, the air whooshing out of his lungs in a startled gasp. The world spun around him, stars dancing in his vision as he lay sprawled on the pavement, his breath coming in ragged, choked sobs.
All of it is nothing—his patience, his kindness, and his politeness as a stand-up gentleman. It's all becoming irrelevant now; the years of being bullied have taken his toll, and he's had enough. "I've had enough of this!" Tom roared, his voice a broken rasp, tears leaking from the corner of his eyes.
"No more!" Gathering his strength, he lunged forward with a raised fist, intending to hit one of them, only to find himself pinned down by the other two gang members. His fists stilled, the fight draining out of him as quickly as it came.
It was just a fluke, a fake bravo of courage that he thought he was capable of even defending himself from these guys. Because of this foolish mistake, he is about to get the worst beating of his life. He is not ready for this, and he knew it.
Hope of standing up against these bullies is beginning to fade, but he can't bring himself to accept defeat so easily. "Don't you dare touch me again," he growled, his voice shaking with fear. "I'll scream, and the whole city will hear me!" His worst didn't reach them when they began kicking him while he was down.
"How about this?!" One of the Elvis goons kicked Tom's stomach, the vicious blow splitting his ribs and the agony ripping through him like a knife, making him let out a strangled cry. The world went white, the pain blinding him as he doubled over, clutching at his midsection, the air rushing out of his lungs in a pained wail. "Not so tough now, are you?" He gloated, "Haha, a little weakling like you will never stand up to us."
The second goon laughed, spitting on the fallen young man as the saliva landed on his face with a sickening splat. "You're just a worthless waste of air!"
Its over, were his only thoughts from this constant beating and beating he was forced to endure now. He shouldn't fight back; he shouldn't—
"Alright, that's enough!"
The voice of the newcomer had immediately stopped the goons, his heart pounding in anticipation. Tom looked up to see a person around his age with black hair, a white turtleneck shirt, and beige pants along of his worn glasses. Just the sight of another person coming to the rescue was a miracle enough for him that it brought him tears to see someone willingly put themselves in danger on his behalf.
"You guys need to stop," the stranger said calmly, his voice commanding authority and his stance making the three thugs pause, their feral grins fading into wary expressions. Sunny had no idea what's going on in this alleyway, but seeing someone get beaten up for whatever reason didn't suit him, he asked, "Why are you hurting him?" He then glanced at Tom, who was struggling to rise from the ground.
"Because we want to!" Elvis snarled, his face twisting into a mask of fury. "This loser's food tastes like shit, and it's been bothering me since morning," the leader sneered, finding the reason to continue tormenting the young man, "and I'm tired of putting up with his sorry ass," a ridiculous reason that made the newcomer scowl in disgust.
"I don't care about your petty reason, but this has to stop right now!" Sunny couldn't believe what he heard. They are hurting another human being because they don't like the food. An unbelievable reason to commit a crime, especially at their matured age, "Listen to reason and look at yourselves; you're nothing but a bunch of bullies!"
With those words, the stranger took a step closer, his hands clenched at his sides, his expression a mix of anger and determination.
"Leave now, and no one gets hurt."
Smiling confidently, Elvis and his goons took a step forward together, side by side. "What are you going to do about it, small fry?" He challenged, his voice dripping with contempt, "We've dealt with tougher people than you, and we'll deal with you too," the leader jeered, his goons grinning maliciously.
"Trying to play hero will only get you hurt; better run before we make an example out of you too," the three thugs then grinned menacingly, revealing their teeth in a vicious snarl.
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