Can you just do it?

Can you just do it?

The man who kicked the crap out of me resembled an artist. He was like Da Vinci and I was his Sistine Chapel. His fists being the brush; that he so gracefully used. My face being the canvas; that he slaved over to cover every part. My blood was his paint to mess with, and my teeth being the turpentine to this his paint from spewing out of my mouth. Each blow hurt less, than the one that came before it, his brush numbing, and layering his canvas; with knots on my forehead and black and blues appearing moments after he'd connect with my face. I was in such pain. I crawled into a ball, gushing out waterworks.

I soiled myself. He broke my dignity.

When he did a final kick straight into my groin, I noticed him breathing heavy and I actually felt sorry for tiring him out. He then proceeded to wipe the sweat from his brow, and walked away, but, not before christening his masterpiece with a huge loogie that was spat right at my bruised cheek.

It hurt so bad. It hurt so fucking bad. I just stayed there on the ground choking on my own spit and tears, screaming out cries.

FIN.