A few years passed by like that: Always on the go, never staying in one place for more than a few days. Every month or two, Blacks would find me and I would kill them. By the time I was 13, most skin on my arms was covered in burn scars from the Black stuff. I learned that clothes were no use for protection against it: The stuff burned right through any fabric I had been able to put my hands on. That was why I only wore long-sleeved shirts when absolutely necessary and even then I never closed them: It had to be easy to take it off when Blacks came. Clothes were hard enough to get by as it was so it seemed like a waste to keep burning through them.
As I grew older, my fighting skills grew as well. I could easily jump and kick a Black a few yards back before throwing the dagger and killing it. I needed these improved skills: Blacks seemed to find me sooner and sooner again after every attack. I beat them every time. By the time I was 15, I was covered head to toe in burns and scars, but still living and undefeated. Over the years I had started to put question marks over my past. Why did the Blacks kill my mom? What did they want from me? Did they kill my brother and father too? And if not, why did the latter never look for me? Or, maybe they did but just couldn't find me because I was running all the time…
The first questions bothered me the most. I tried capturing Blacks and torturing them for information about whom they worked for and why they wanted to kill me but it didn't work. The first one I captured dissolved into a black, slimy mass and reformed again a few yards away. The second one disappeared completely and the third burned through the ropes I used to tie it up with. Even when I did have them for more than a few seconds, they wouldn't say anything. Or at least not anything I could comprehend.
Another thing I learned about Blacks was that they came in all shapes and sizes. I had seen cat-Blacks, lion-Blacks, women Blacks, men Blacks, Blacks who spat poison and Blacks with giant fangs. And so on, and so on. The thing they all had in common though, was their eyes. They were either the shining, ruby red or, like their insides, pitch black.
Life on the streets had changed me, it had made me harder. I never really had any friends. I did befriend one girl, roughly a year after I first ran. Her name was Myrna, and she was about my age. She said she was on the run from social services who wanted to put her back in an orphanage with abusive caretakers. After a few days she attacked me in my sleep. I still have the scar from where she stabbed a piece of glass into my ribcage. You might have guessed it already: She was a Black. I discovered that when I used a nail to poke out here eye and black stuff came out with it. That experience taught me a bitter but important lesson: Never. Trust. Anyone. Never trust anyone.
And I never did. I barely ever spoke to anyone. Even stray dogs symbolized a possible encounter with Blacks to me. People tended to avoid me, and I was fine with that. I didn't need anyone anyway. I never did find out anything about what happened to my family. I gave up trying to look for them and they never found me either. Some nights when I lied in some shed or bus stop, I would think of my best friend, from before everything happened. Her name was Isabelle, and she was just perfect in every way I wasn't. Tall and pretty, with long dark hair. She was very nice as well. I always pushed those thought away, knowing that I would never see them again.