Running through the streets, abandoned, was something I had never imagined myself doing. But here I was, heart pounding in my chest, sweat pouring down my face, and blood mixing with it. The steady rhythm of my feet was echoed by the equal rhythm of my attacker’s footsteps. I could feel him getting closer, his breath hot on my neck.

Suddenly, I reached a dead end in the street. I turned around to face my attacker, but it was too late. He grabbed me, threw me on the ground, and began to create pain for me. The sound of his fists hitting my body was like thunder in my ears. Each blow felt like a sledgehammer, crushing my bones and tearing my flesh.

I screamed in agony, but he didn’t stop. He seemed to relish in my pain, taking his time to inflict as much damage as possible. I felt like a rag doll in his hands, helpless and powerless.

As he continued to beat me, I couldn’t help but think of how much this felt like a nightmare. But it was all too real. The pain was too intense, the fear too overwhelming.

Finally, he stopped. I lay there, gasping for breath, my body broken and battered. He stood over me, a dark shadow in the night, and whispered, “You should have never crossed me.”

I knew then that I was going to die. The pain was too much, and I couldn’t fight anymore. I closed my eyes, waiting for the end to come.

But it never did. When I opened my eyes, my attacker was gone. I was alone, lying in the street, broken and bleeding. It was a miracle that I was still alive.

As I struggled to get up, I couldn’t help but think of how much this experience had changed me. I was no longer the same person I was before. The pain had left its mark on me, both physically and mentally. And I knew that I would never forget the horror of that night, the sound of my own screams echoing in my ears for years to come.