Edited:

Enjoy, lovelies~

Happy 8th birthday, Fang I thought bitterly. I wasn't getting anything this year, not that I did in any of the previous years. My father always said that birthdays are for sissies.

And I was no sissy.

I crouched in the alleyway and peered over the edge of the wall, my dark eyes scanning all those around me. No police. It was clear. Why, you ask, should I stay away from officers?

When you've just ran away from home, and your dad is crazy, things don't look too good with you and the officials.

I slung my backpack across my shoulder, remembering how I had gotten it about a month ago. When my mother…died, my father lost it. I never really understood their relationship, but it was always…close. Although it's funny, because my father was the one who…

I don't really know.

Anyway. After that beating I took from him, he proceeded to dump me out of the house like a trash bag. That night I slept outside, finding an old tent in the storage below our building and using that for shelter. I found a few of our old camping supplies in there too, which included a flash light, my dad's old work clothes, a pocket knife, and a lighter.

Really, I didn't mind being a runaway, even though it can be tough at times. It's not like I missed third grade at all. There are other things I did miss though, like my mother.

I walked onto the side walk, slipping on a too-big hat that covered most of my face so. I've been letting my hair grow to help disguise myself better, and I really did look different. More...ragged. Like an old, dirty pillow case

I passed by an electronics store and noticed that it was playing the news. Slowing down, I stopped to hear what the reporters were saying-

…the sick man's missed child, Nick…

Narrowing my eyes, I glared at the screen and scoffed. I hated that name. Nick. Ever since I left home, I decided that I wanted to be called Fang. Yeah, I know, cheesy as hell, but that's what my mother used to call me. I guess it just kind of stuck

I took off running before anyone noticed that I was the missing child. I needed to blend in quickly, before anyone noticed anything. I found a couple of kids playing basket ball a little ways from the store.

They were all older and bigger than me, but my height masked that I was only eight. Good ol' genes.

"Hey guys, mind if I play?" I asked, stepping onto the court. Might as well make some friends while I can, because I have a feeling that "friends" don't exist when you're running for the rest of your life.

SIX YEARS LATER

"If I ever, ever, see your face again, I'm going to gut you alive," I snarled. The guy in front of me was whimpering, pressed against the brick wall behind him. I took in the damage I had done to him: several nasty bruises and a broken nose. Not my best, but enough.

He was around sixteen, and I'm not exactly sure if I've turned fourteen yet, what month was it again?

I was tall and broad for my age, easily mistakable for an older teenager. Puberty really does change some people. I had one nasty temper at one point, but I've learned to contain it. For the most part.

Back to the…awkward scene. See, New York is filled with homeless kids, teens, and adults. Obviously, most of them are starving and don't have any money (figures, they're hobos now, and I refuse to call myself one. I'm such a hypocrite). The guy decided to jump me, to see if I had any money, which I did. But I earned every penny with hard work, and there was no way in hell I was going to let some skank come and steal the meager cash I have.

I've stayed unnoticed for the past six years (okay, so there have been a few slip ups that involved jails, daggers, hotdogs, and a defected pistol, but that's besides the point). I'm what you would call a pavement artist. I blend into the crowd, I walk like I know what I'm doing, where I'm going (which I never do, actually).

But I'm well known in the other world in New York (irony much?). Not the busy, loud, and productive world, but the dark, dirty, and hidden world, where children sleep in dumpsters and gangs corner innocents.

My world.

And that totally sounded like a Barbie commercial that I saw years ago in a shop. Lord.

It's not an easy life, life on the streets, I mean, but I preferred it to the life I used to live. My father beating me when I didn't listen, he was such an ass, now that I think of it. The only reason he was ever nice to me was because of my mom, but when she died…

I still had scars across my torso from belt lashings, or anything that was in his way. He's used burned out bulbs, large forks, anything. I still remembered each beating I took from him, the feeling of skin splitting, of a welt forming. He'd scream and hit me harder if I cried; he hated it when I cried.

Back to reality. I changed my location at least once a week, in case anyone's recognized or spotted me. Because of this tactic, I've been all around New York, and the great thing was that, for the most part, we street kids look out for each other, which provided us some comfort.

But there's also those kids who want to murder, mug, or shoot you.

I took my chances.

I haven't seen my father since I left him, and I never wanted to again. Every time I thought of him, my mother's death flashed behind my eyelids, and God, it was horrifying. When I was younger, I didn't understand what had happened, but years of replaying the scene made me understand. I knew.

"Get away, Nick! Go in your room, now!" my dad barked. I was scared and didn't know what to do, I didn't even know what was going on. My father had something in his hand, a knife? But it was slick with something dark and smelly. I could vaguely hear my mother whimpering from somewhere in the house.

I hurried off to my room, not sure of what to make of the image. I stayed there for the rest of the night, but I didn't sleep. I heard screams and moans, breaking glass and objects clattering to the floor.

I waited.

The next morning my mom was gone. My dad told me that she had a heart attack, but I didn't believe him, heart attacks don't consist of…what I saw. I wanted to believe him though, I really did.

Now, when I look back at it, obviously my dad murdered my mom, there was no other explanation. The knife, the blood…

I don't know where he went. He's not back at our apartment anymore, nor was he ever on the news for the crime he's committed. It's like he's disappeared.

I slipped through the crowd, as if I was a ghost. I wove between the bodies, not a soul bothering me.

I had a black bag slung across my chest, I bought a new one about two years ago with some extra money that I had. I needed one; my first bag was ripped to shreds in one of the first fights I had gotten myself in.

"Hello, young man, would you like to buy a newspaper?" a vendor asked, picking up a copy and offering it to me. I shook my head, I needed every penny I had.

I didn't talk at all these days, and when I did, my voice sounded hoarse. There wasn't any need to talk, my fists did all the talking, if need be. Everything in New York is gestures, you see a kid you like, you nod. You see a kid, you hate him, you glare. It's as simple as that.

I was headed off to Mr. Henry's place, who would pay me for cleaning his apartment. I never cleaned the same apartment more than a couple of times, so the owners wouldn't ask me questions that were unanswerable. Besides, next week I should be able to get twenty miles away from here.

I wasn't exactly…presentable but I had spare clothes that looked decent. Can't go into a dirty apartment wanting to clean it when you're dirtier than it, hmm?

That's how I made my money; I cleaned apartments, helped at grocery stores, and other random, small jobs to get myself some money.

Right before Mr. Henry's building, I slipped into a small area between two apartment building, away from the crowd of people. I shrugged off my shirt and took out a cleaner one from my bag. I needed to clean my stuff soon, before it all rots. I pulled the fresh shirt over my head and combed my shoulder-length hair with my fingers, trying to make myself look less…homeless.

I left my bag there, stuffing it in a small hole in the concrete. There, it's a bit less visible now. Sighing, I started towards his apartment.

I knocked on the door and it swung wide open, the grayed-haired man greeted me. "Hello, Jake. The cleaning supplies are in the bathroom cabinet, like always. I gotta run to the store to buy some things, so Kyle's here." Mr. Henry said, and with that, he smiled and pushed past me, leaving me with…Kyle.

Kyle was Henry's seventeen year old son, and the most obnoxious boy in the world. And you'd think people who lived in luxury would be thankful…

Well, you and I thought wrong.

"Yo. Maid boy, get me some water," he was lying on the couch, watching football.

I just ignored him and went to the bathroom, wanting to get this thing over with. This is the third time I've been here, and every time Kyle was over. Doesn't he have school or something? Isn't that what teenage kids do?

I mean, I wouldn't know, but still.

I'm probably not coming here again; I'll just go to someplace else for money. If you know how to look, you'll always find a way.

"Hey! I was talking to you!" he yelled. I grabbed the bucket out of the bathroom cabinet, took out some Comet and a sponge, and started scrubbing the sink.

God, I felt so pitiful doing these kinds of job. Then again, someone has to do them, and unfortunately I'm one of those someones. But it was either this, starve, or steal it.

Well, I wasn't going to starve.

And heck, I wasn't going to steal. I don't want to end up in jail, and I don't want to be a thief, like half of the screwed up children that live out here.

So, really, I had no choice, but I'm used to it now.

Kyle leaned in the door way, "So what? You need to grovel at our feet for money?" he asked.

Ok, no one ever talked to me like that on the streets. But see, he doesn't know me at all. I have a reputation in the other, darker world of New York, and no one messed with me. They knew what I could do. I was about ready to punch the snot out of his nose, but then he'd call his dad, who'd call the police, and I'd be so screwed.

I sighed, got up, and left. I'll go make some money elsewhere. I didn't need that punk pestering me.

I had about twenty-seven dollars with me, which was pretty decent. There were times were I had to live off of ten bucks for almost two weeks. Twenty-seven was enough to last me awhile.

I walked next to Fight Night, watching my reflection in the tinted windows. It was a place that held boxing, kickboxing, and wrestling tournaments, not a place for kids.

They were having a boxing tournament today, and anyone's allowed to enter. Of course, there are rules. Its twenty-dollars to get in the match, and you have to be at least seventeen years old. Losing meant a damn painful beating by your opponent and you losing your twenty bucks, but winning meant a whooping fifty dollars or more, depending on the competitors.

Okay, that's not much, but more than what I have.

Like I said before, my rapid growth during puberty made me look much older than I really was, which was fourteen. I could pass for seventeen, being almost six feet tall. Not shaving helped, too. I'm also strong and fast, ask any kid around that's been under my mercy.

It wouldn't hurt to try, but if I lost it'd mean bye-bye twenty dollars and hello dirty apartments. I went into the building and went up to the guy at the desk, making it look as if I had a purpose.

"I'd like to enter tonight's fight," I demanded. My voice sounded low and hard, and come to think of it, intimidating. Wow voice, long time no hear.

"Look kid, this ain't a joke. You're nothing but a skinny pick, you'll get ripped to shreds," the burly man leaned back on the counter, scrutinizing me.

I thrust the twenty dollars at him, and wrote my name (I used Jake Whitney as my "name") on the signup sheet.

He chuckled darkly and I left, a small smile playing on my face, bemused by his certainty.

I peered inside a random store and looked at the clock, needing to know what time it was. It was 7:30 pm; the fight starts at 8:00 sharp. I left and started walking towards Fight Night, the cool air calming my nerves.

I went inside and the same guy behind the desk sneered at me, "Competitors change in the locker rooms."

I nodded and followed the sign to the changing rooms. It was empty; I guess the others came early. I took off my shirt, no need to get it bloody, and changed into a pair of beat-up black shorts.

As I walked out I picked up wraps and boxing gloves, slipping them on as I watched the people around me. There were a lot of people here, it seemed like the place was overflowing.

There were only three people competing tonight; I made four. Every single one of them was huge though, and maybe that guy was right, I was going to get crushed. I was the same height as most of them, but they were freaking muscle (so was I, but I was thin as hell). If they weren't stronger than me, all they had to do was sit on me and I'll be done for.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

Off to the side, I saw a tall girl, maybe sixteen (and you're supposed to be seventeen too…I'm such a hypocrite), standing next to them. I watched her take a pair of black boxing gloves, expertly pulling them on.

Holy crap, was she going to fight one of us?

Well, that makes five competitors.

I grimaced; I might as well get this over with. I looked at the cheering crowd, bloodthirsty and ready to see some action. There were a variety of people in the stands. Old men and teens looking for a blood bath. There were even girls.

We all stood behind a big curtain, smaller curtains separating the five of us. We could hear a man talking on a microphone, getting the people out there even more excited than before.

"Today, we're going t have one hell of a match!"

We each had to pick a stage name to be called by for the fight. I picked Fang . Shocker.

"First off, we'll have The Hammer (he was the biggest of the opponents) and Snake."

The bell rung and the game started. It was easy to see that 'Snake' was a lot faster than 'Hammer', but Hammer was stronger (surprise surprise).

Snake ended up winning. It was interesting, because what he did was dizzy the man, easily coiling away from his heavy blows, before attacking his left side and bringing him down.

"Next we have a special guest; Maximum, the undefeated champion!" The crown went wild with whistles and stomping feet.

I wonder who this Maximum is. The other guy?

The girl came out with a smirk on her face, waving at the roaring crowd like a celebrity. This chick is an undefeated champion?

She jumped into the ring, bouncing lightly on her feet, her streaked blonde hair tied in a pony tail. Her opponent looked like he was about to pee in his pants. So…since when are three hundred pound guys afraid of sparkly ponies like this girl?

Okay, muscled sparkly ponies, but you know what I mean.

The girl beat him in less than one minute. You could barely see her move, she was that fast. In fifty-three seconds, she managed to knock him out with a few punches to the head.

Her opponent lay unconscious on the floor.

The crown went wild with cheers, and she jumped out of the arena, not a bruise on her perfect peach skin. Her poor opponent had his nose broken, two black eyes, and I wouldn't be surprised if he was internally bleeding. He ground, pushing himself up with his right arm.

"Next up, we have Snake and Fang!" I'm really beginning to hate this guy, I felt like he was advertizing me.

I walked out and the crowd took one look at me, went silent, and boo-ed.

They freaking BOO-ED.

I gritted my teeth, I knew I could take this Snake guy; he may be fast, but not nearly as strong. And guess what? I was both.

"What's this tooth pick doing out here?" someone.

I ignored everyone and turned my attention to my opponent. He had a smile on his face, flexing his thick arms and showing off to the swarm of people.

"You sure you don't want to run to your mama?" he sneered, chuckling.

Calmly, I just smirked at him, and the bell rung. We hit gloves and started circling each other, watching, waiting.

He swung a hook, but I took a quick step back and he barely missed. It threw him slightly off balance and I took advantage of that.

I jabbed his stomach, causing his upper body to lean towards me, and with an upper cut, I snapped his chin backwards, his whole body flying the other way.

I heard the crowd cheer and some even started chanting my stage name.

The guy had blood dripping out of his mouth, but he surprised me by flinging himself at me, hitting me with a flurry of jabs. He was much faster than me so I couldn't block them all. He hit me in the face, the stomach, arms, neck, everywhere.

I jumped away before he could hit me anymore, throwing myself against the rope of the ring. I aimed for his stomach, but he knew exactly what I wanted to do and turned so I would fall into him.

That's exactly what I wanted him to do.

I faked the punch, then quickly turned back, hooked my arm around his back, and punched him over and over in the stomach. He started coughing and gagging, and a few seconds later, the referee broke us apart.

I won the next round; a winning blow to his head was all it took to bring him down.

I stepped out of the ring; there would be a half hour wait before I'd have to fight the remaining winner, Maximum.

I caught her watching me from the corner of her eye. I took a sip of water and stared back at her; she smirked, got up, and went behind the curtain. She was tall and skinny, but muscular. You could see her every muscle move when she walked, thighs thick and layered with muscle, arms slender but hard.

I need a girlfriend.

What was she doing here anyway? Doesn't she have a family to go to? Does her family even approve of this?

Why do I care? I see family-less kids on the street every day, some rule-breaking girl shouldn't even cross my mind.

Curiosity overruled.

Why the hell is a girl here at Fight Night kicking ass?

Ah, so many questions, so little answers. That's just the way life is.

Whatever, let's get this over with.

…

Argh, but I don't hit girls. It's just wrong.

I had a couple bruises on me, but nothing too bad. The climbed into the ring and called us forward. He had a sickly sweet smile on his face. He was enjoying this.

"For the last and final match, we have our two champions, Maximum and Fang!"

The crowd mostly cheered for Maximum, but I did hear some people cheering for me.

Too bad I was going to disappoint.

I got up on stage and the girl was jumping on her feet, warming up. She stretched a bit, too, for the effect.

"I thought boys aren't supposed to hit girls?" she asked innocently, but I could see a gleam of delight in her eye, she was having fun, she likedthis.

Creepy.

"And I thought fairies were real," I muttered, not really sure if I should shove her ego down her throat or not. She narrowed her eyes.

"Well, pretty boy, get ready for the fight of your life," she sneered. The bell rung, we touched gloves, and the fight begun.

We circled other, and she made the first move. She lashed out with her fist, straight at my face, aiming for where it'll hurt. She was faster than I thought and I moved a bit late. Her blow had much more power than I thought possible, and even though her glove only grazed my chin, my head snapped to the side.

She regained her composer and punched me with her left hand, swinging the rest of her body through with it so that it was stronger.

If she hit me, she'd end up leaning into me slightly, which I could take advantage of, but it would hurt.

On the other hand, I could dodge it, but who knows what this chick is hiding up her sleeve.

I took the punch, and my breath left with an oof. But I was right, she did lean slightly. I raised my arm, balled my fist, and—

Damn. It. She was a girl.

Yeah, I've made men cry, but I wasn't going to hit a girl. I decided that I was just going to block her punches, that way it won't look like I actually got beat up by her.

She smiled and backed away, her steps light and quick. I lifted my arms closer to my head and pressed my elbows closer to my stomach, defense stance.

She jabbed at my face multiple times, but I just blocked her hands or stepped away from them.

Only then she realized I wasn't going to fight her back, and so did the audience. They started booing and throwing things at me, angry at the fact that I was giving them a boring show.

Would you look at that, my morals have just been crushed by flying coke cans and lollipop wrappers.

The first and second round exhausted me, since all I did was run around the arena keeping myself from being pummeled. I couldn't ward off all of her blows, she was an amazing fighter. I had blood running from my nose and mouth, but I would live.

She was staring at me distastefully, pissed that I'm standing here like a potato.

"Why aren't you fighting me back?" she hissed, her eye flaring.

I just shook my head.

"Whatever, more money for me," she sighed, sad that I'm not throwing back any punches.

What the hell, man.

The third round began and, clearly bored, Maximum snapped her fist into my jaw, causing me to practically black out. She wanted to finish already. I was on the ground, groaning, massaging my mouth, glaring at her.

"Well, that was one interesting match," the referee said. They announced the winner (not me, unfortunately) and gave over the prize money. I cursed myself for letting myself do such a foolish thing. Now I'm left with seven dollars and no job.

I slipped into the locker room, grabbed my back, put a shirt on, and headed towards the door. I stood at the entrance of the stage, waiting for the audience to file out.

I heard someone walk towards me and with a start, I realized it was Maximum. The closer she came, the surer I was about the fact that she wasn't seventeen. Even though she was extremely tall, like me, her face had a…younger feel to it. I hated to admit it, but she was kind of pretty.

"You're not seventeen, are you?" I asked, raising my eyebrows. Straight to the point. My voice slightly cracked at the lack of use, and I frowned.

"Yes I am," she said coolly, watching the crowd disperse. I rolled my eyes, who did she think she was talking to?

"Well, you're not either, so I wouldn't be talking," she mumbled. I snapped my head to look back at her. How the heck could she tell?

"You know, under that dirt and hair, you still look like a high school student."

I grimaced, "Don't people still go to high school at seventeen?"

She shrugged, turning away from me and watching the last of the people leave, "I guess."

So she didn't know.

"Well, good luck, with whatever," she waved at me goodbye, walking back to the women's rest room, and I nodded farewell.

Too bad I'll never see her again, but when you live life like I do, you know to never wish for anything.

Because it never comes true.

Does anyone else have those moments where your life just kind of plays over in your head?

And speaking of life, one of its little angels was walking towards me.

"How old are you, kid?" the man asked me, his cigar hanging from his mouth.

Oh shoot. Man. Questions. Cigar.

This can't end well.

"Eighteen," I replied calmly.

"You sure about that? 'Cuz you look like a little younger to me," he narrowed his eyes, his gaze searing through me.

"And what's it to you?" I retorted, snorting. Besides, what if I was underage and fighting? You can catch fights more gory than the dancing we did in there around the many drug dealers in New York.

I was about to say something when he silently took out his wallet and showed me his F.B.I badge.

So, edited chapter. I like it better than the first XD

I'm too lazy to go back and reread it, excuse the mistakes :P

What did you think?

(First time readers, just ignore that :P and a warning to you guys, the next chapters aren't edited, so I recommend you stop here and wait until I update them (because they suck :3)

OHYEAH.

Review, m'dears~