H2 Save your life: Chap. 3, Part 1.

I got off easy. The cobra had pulled itself out of the fight. Surely next time I would not be so lucky. And I had absolutely no doubt that there would be a next time. I was only five years old at the time, but I already knew that you stayed there until you were sixteen. Even if it was only once a year, there would be ten more cobras waiting to eat me, or… I felt like there was a spider crawling up the back of my neck just at the thought of it.

They came for me at about lunchtime, when my stomach was growling so ferociously I thought I might have to knock it out, too. I am sure I dozed off some time during the wait, but I was too scared to think about it. Every time I closed my eyes I could see either the cobra alive - imprinted in my eyes as the lights went out – or the cobra lying against the floor. Each time I closed my eyes, I erupted into a violent fit of shivering.

It didn’t help that when they finally came to get me, they dragged me out of the room by the collar of my T-shirt. Just like a dog not wanting to be taken for a walk, I was pulled backwards through the hallways. My old clothes snagged on the rough concrete. My feet were bare, and within moments of leaving the room with the pit, I was trailing blood. But I couldn’t lift them up, or else it would just make my bum bleed, too.

The journey wasn’t long, but some time in between the two Hells, I started to cry. I could feel the warm, salty tears run down my cheeks. I desperately tried to stop them, but they flowed freely. Not knowing what to do, I brought my hands up to my face to wipe them away. We turned a corner, and stopped.

“What do you think you’re doing, eh?” he started to yell barely a second after the door closed behind us. “You kill the Cobra, not the Cobra kills itself! Jeezus…” The man, probably no more than twenty five, was absolutely teeming. He looked down at me, anger flaring in his eyes, as if contemplating what to do with me.

Any attempt to wash away the tears was pointless, because a fresh new batch arrived, flowing more like a river than the previous trickle. My breaths turned short, and I found myself gasping, choking back the tears as they ran down the back of my throat.

“Aw, Kid. Don’t cry,” I looked up at him, not expecting the kind tone of voice he now offered. His face was twisted into a kind of grin, but not the good kind. He brought his hand up, and smacked me across the face. Immediately I likened it to the feel of barbed wire being lashed across me cheek.

I rolled over to my left and puked. It tasted like strong acid and vinegar, mixed in with small remnants of last night’s meal. I wasn’t exactly enjoying it, but I did feel a new kind of lightness in my tummy. I wouldn’t describe it as a nice feeling, but it was better than having it all sloshing around inside me.

I raised my hand up to my stinging cheek, but I found something worse than stomach juices. The skin was hot to the touch and it burned as I ran my fingers over it. My mouth covered in a thick, gooey substance, but I knew at once that it was not the same stuff that was on the floor beside me. My nose was bleeding.

“…Because real boys don’t cry,” the young man looked down at me again, and I flinched, thinking that he would smack me again. But he just turned and walked off, closing the door behind him.

I closed my eyes and thumped my head against the wall. It was at least half an hour until my nose was healed enough to smell anything - and even then I thought it might be a trick. Sitting in front of me, now only slightly warm, was a golden roasted chicken. I guessed that was my prize for staying alive.

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