Everything soon became a blur. The butcher stood up straight, released Erzo’s head, and watched his legs go limp. Erzo collapsed back into the large bucket filled with pig slop and decaying waste but caught himself against the edge by using his arm as a hook. Apparently, two strong dunks of the boy’s head into the bucket were all that was needed from the butcher to make Erzo vomit. The last thing he could remember was seeing the butcher’s bright hazel eyes filled with malice before everything went dark. It all happened so fast.

  The butcher placed his hands on his hips and bent over. “That will teach ye to take anything from me again, pointy,” the butcher bellowed close behind Erzo’s head. “Next time ye won’t be so lucky.”

  The large, meaty hand, once again, yanked on a tuft of Erzo’s brown hair and lifted his head up and closer to his. Erzo gasped - thankful he could get a full breath again, even for a brief moment.

  “Good luck with that,” Erzo coughed with a sly smirk across his face.

  “Trying to back-talk me, you demi-trash? You and all these parentless rats ‘round here need to be put in your place.” The butcher cursed further in a fit of rage and returned Erzo’s face to the bucket once more.

  Except he didn’t let go.

  It wasn’t the first time he was called some kind of slander for being a half-elf. His pointed ears almost always gave it away. Every humanoid race that was not specifically human, was called “demihuman” for the sake of simplicity. There were too many races. But the “impurity” of not being purely human, made others use the term negatively. So the term stuck.

  The putrid bucket of pig slop and waste began to fill his ears and nose. His stomach convulsed and his lungs cried, desperate for air.

  Intrusive thoughts flooded his mind.

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  I thought he was just going to teach me a lesson…

  Is really trying to kill me…

  Is it because I am not like everyone else?

  It was just a flank…

  I don’t deserve this.

  I don’t want to die…

  If I was stronger…

  Mom…

  It wasn’t uncommon for a pickpocket to be killed in the outer district slums of the city. Usually, it was because they took something of high value from the wrong people. Gold jewelry maybe. Erzo could understand this point. Food, however, was about survival. Everyone understood it was a calculated risk. So a small beating or scolding was ordinary.

  A hefty beating was one thing and all too common, but death was a bit on the extreme side, even for most situations. Although, therein lies the problem. Erzo could never understand why violence seemed to be the answer to everything.

  Through the muck, Erzo could just barely hear the common folk walk by his poor form and continue about their business. He was pretty sure someone said, “poor kid,” but left it at that. It had nothing to do with them and getting involved meant getting on the local butcher’s bad side. Erzo understood that was how things were, but it still wasn’t right. His own weakness made him feel sicker than the pig slop that entered his mouth.

  The pressure began to build in his head from being bent over. He didn’t want to die. In a final attempt at freedom, his arms and legs began to flail wildly, hoping to catch the butcher off guard and make him lose his tight grip. But it didn’t work. The old man was simply too strong.

  Suddenly, all of the pressure in Erzo’s head was released at once with a pop. Spots and stars of magnificent, vibrant colors fluttered throughout his mind like sparks. His body lay motionless in the bucket, soaked in slop and slime alike. The butcher then stood and abandoned the situation like an afterthought, attempting to parade more shoppers around his meat cart.

  All that was left for Erzo was black.