It is night, and I wander through the empty streets. At some windows, I pause, seeing the light within and imagining what it might be like there. People, family, togetherness – happiness? Perhaps, perhaps not. Snippets of an argument reach my ears. Here, a woman hysterically screaming at her husband. There, a toddler crying. And over there, lustful moaning, sounds of two people immersed in their own world of passion and devotion on this night.
I walk through the darkness, drawn to light and warmth like a moth. A night butterfly tracing its paths, searching for something it cannot define…
There, a rustling on the ground. Small, glossy black eyes look at me slyly from the darkness, as if to say, „Do as I do, human—hide!“ A small rat looking for food in the city’s abundance—then a clatter, the rodent’s eyes dart away, and the creature seeks its salvation in fleeing. A cat, too, prowls the night in search of sustenance.
It is night, and many rats and hunters are out.
I turn into a side street. A shortcut. Then, as I cross halfway down the street, a furtive movement at its end.
Three men, huddled together. Whispering, exchanging glances, fixing and assessing me. I sense them trying to appear as inconspicuous as possible. Three harmless passersby emerging from the darkness? I pull my coat tighter around my shoulders, make way in the middle of the street, and stick close to the building walls, my focus increasingly on the three figures ahead of me.
Something emanates from them – a threat. Gestures are made, stealthy movements at the end of this path, a brief glint in a hand, metal shining in the faint streetlight. Other hunters in the night, waiting for easy prey and thinking they’ve found it…
Should I turn back and run? But to where? The streets behind me are empty, and my cries for help would go unanswered. I know this already. Filling my lungs with air and running. Moving arms and legs in the rhythm of fleeing, only to end up? Standing before a wall, too weak to defend myself. No. I will not run. Darkness cannot flee from darkness. No, tonight, I will not flee.
The three come closer, and I discern more and more details under the half-light of the pale streetlights: baggy pants, sneakers that have seen better days, jackets too expensive to have been obtained legally by these hungry ghosts of the night. I do not judge. Those living in extreme situations still deserve life and warm clothing! But this gives no one the right to harm another.
The three figures are nervous. Perhaps it is the anticipation of easy prey, perhaps fear, or maybe a mix of everything. I do not know what exactly drives them, but I know what they intend.
All they see is a lonely man, seemingly making his way home with his head down. Hands stuffed in his pockets against the night chill, collar turned up. An easy victim. The three spread out, occupying more of the street, signaling, „There’s no way through here.“ One moves a step ahead. They want to corner me; even now, I could flee, running through the night and seeking shelter in a dark corner.
In the hand of the one in the middle, something flashes briefly and stealthily. A knife is drawn; the dice are cast. Too late to run, too late for them…
It’s a strange trio—neither homeless nor junkies. Not truly well-kept, but not as rundown as I first thought. And as they draw nearer, they seem younger than I initially assumed. I can hear the sound of their breathing, faint clouds of breath puffing out before their faces, cold sweat fills my nose.
A strange smell – fear? Adrenaline? People who are angry smell different. The one ahead passes by me, casting a sidelong, shrewd glance, sizing me up, weighing, estimating—and I can smell his uncertainty—a bitter, stinking odor. I note his position behind me while my eyes fix on the other two ahead.
The one in the middle approaches me—the face half concealed beneath a green hoodie, which he wears under an expensive-looking leather jacket. My senses work in overdrive, picking up every tiny detail. Stay calm now, or the night will end badly for me.
As he comes within two steps, he lunges at me. A knife seeking my throat and a grimy hand pressing me against the wall. He wants money, but there’s more—I can feel the lust for violence, for humiliating and hurting others; I see greed in his eyes. A hunter confident in his prey. But me? I’m more like a spider. I sit still and wait for someone to touch my web. Just like this one…
The third stands somewhat aside, observing the surroundings.
I realize he’s the one who’ll try to run. In groups, there’s always one who will run. I let the middleman rehearse his lines, play along, pretend to be unsure, scared. Pressure on my chest mounting, then easing. The blade at my throat presses into the side—not hard, but enough to make me understand it’s best not to resist, to endure it all. I pay attention to his movements and the force he exerts, assessing.
His eyes start to gleam—a rat catching the scent of sure and fat prey!
He still feels superior to his victim as my hand shoots up, grabbing his knife hand and twisting it away from my throat. Movement behind me, the squeak of a shoe sliding on not entirely dry ground. I turn, pulling the knifeman’s arm forward with a rotational movement from the shoulder joint, as my knee drives into his liver. The knifeman collapses forward, and in my rotation, I maneuver him before me like a shield. He serves his purpose, absorbing the kick from the second man behind me.
The lookout has realized at this point that something is going terribly wrong, but it’s too late. I charge after him and catch him before he can properly start his escape. A quick, precise kick to his Achilles tendon sends him tumbling mid-flight. I start to turn back to my rear opponent, but he’s faster than I expected, holding something dark in his hand—something solid that arcs toward my head. I duck to the side, and the club grazes my cheek, burning as it scrapes past my ear—a hot pain, and a brief red flash before my eyes. Stay conscious, don’t give in to sleep for even a second!
I remember other, similar pain. I know how it feels when your own bones break under blows, or when targeted hits ignite a searing pain that brings tears to your eyes. I recall how it felt to painstakingly learn: One step after another. Rebuilding muscles, relearning how to walk, and forgetting the traces of a long immobile time. A brief moment, and I have regained control. I think of the scars I’ve accumulated over time—visible and invisible alike. I think of these three figures here, and about gaining more scars yet again? No.
No, this pain isn’t severe, not even remotely, and I have to smile faintly. Maybe a concussion—nothing more. What do I know. Tomorrow will reveal it. It’s a cold, grim smile, one bereft of joy, more akin to a wolf’s grin.
My leg shoots up sideways, and I strike his ribcage. A faint crack, and the previous look of furious defiance in his eyes turns to terror. The scream that was filled with anger before now expresses pain. This is someone who is used to inflicting pain on others, but not to enduring it himself. Still, he doesn’t give up; he tries to attack me again. This time, frontal, with his fists raised in front of his body. I retreat before him, once more feeling the cold, damp wall at my back through my coat, and I wait. I know my movement will be fast enough. His fist hurtles toward my face, and I tilt to the right, his fist smashing—propelled by the force of his own momentum—into the cold wall. He won’t be throwing another punch with that hand!
I grab him by the shoulders, pull his body toward me, and slam my forehead directly into the bridge of his nose. A nasty sound, reminiscent of two stones colliding, but one that makes it clear to me that this opponent will no longer pose a threat.
Groaning, he collapses to the ground and remains there, whimpering.
The first one lies on the ground and reaches for his knife. I kick it away, and it vanishes with a clatter into the darkness. His foot twitches toward me, trying to sweep my legs out and bring me down.
I evade the kick, and he tries to roll aside to escape. Not fast enough. Half jumping, half falling, I drive my fist into his thigh—right where the sciatic nerve runs. I land the punch—he screams. Running or properly moving his leg is no longer an option. I finish the fight by delivering a box-like strike to his carotid artery, rendering him unconscious.
The watchman has somewhat recovered by now. He’s back on his feet, and his gaze shifts nervously between me and his companions. He’s the luckiest one tonight, and I let him limp away into the darkness.
I relax and take a closer look at the two injured men. I prop one of them up against the wall to prevent him from choking on the blood he’s now coughing up. I suspect that one of his ribs has punctured his lung. Painful, but not necessarily fatal. I’ve had that happen to me before.
I position the other one in the recovery position. There’s nothing more I can do. I hurry away, find a phone booth, and call an ambulance. When the man on the other end of the line asks for my name, I hang up—enough fairness, more than was ever afforded to me. Let them deal with the two. I retreat into a dark corner from where I can watch them. First, a patrol car arrives, and then the ambulance.
I withdraw further into the darkness and continue on my way. No longer searching for new impressions. What just happened has stirred up too many memories. Too much I can’t process right away. Should I have run away? But what if they had encountered someone weaker than me? I don’t know. I feel guilty and dirty. No, I don’t think I’m a good person.
A few streets further on, there’s a rustling near a small kiosk. Another rat. It’s eating the leftovers that people didn’t want anymore. When it notices me, it scurries between the dumpsters and looks at me with frightened eyes, and the thought occurs to me that many rats roam the streets at night.
Some are afraid, others spread fear. But what am I?
Which one do I belong to?
I don’t know…