He lay there, cheek pressed against the cold cement, dimly aware of a coppery taste in his mouth. Raising his head up slowly to look around, he was greeted by a pounding that drove it right back to the ground. He remained still, hoping it would stop, trying to remember how he’d gotten here, where here was. Finally, thinking the pain had become something bearable, he decided to try again. He made it to his hands and knees and tried to raise his head again. In thanks for his effort, the world spun around until he fell on his side, which burst into flame as he rolled onto his back and passed out again.

It was still dark when he opened his eyes. The throbbing was still there, but softer, more like what he woke up with every morning. The blood on his face was dry, he determined, the taste in his mouth was gone. He slowly sat up, waiting for the vertigo to return. But it didn’t, and he placed his elbows on his drawn up knees and sat, thankful. His eyes focused slowly on an object on the ground, just discernible at the ragged edge of the streetlight’s dominion. His wallet. What had happened?

He sat there a while longer, waiting for the fog to lift, waiting to remember. Slowly the pieces began to materialize, then fall into place. He’d been at the bar, like he was almost every night, nursing his analgesic beer and wishing he could afford something stronger. He’d decided to head home if he was to have any chance of making it to work in the morning. Rounding the corner, headed to his small apartment, he’d seen them. Two guys in the alley, one tall, one short. The short one looked terrified, his ghostly pale face hovering in the darkness, eyes wide with fright as the taller one pressed him against the wall. He was just going to walk past, not get involved. Feathers of lightning licked the horizon to the west, and that meant tomorrow would be busy. He was in a position to help someone though. There’d been a time he wouldn’t have thought twice, and a pang of shame at this internal debate pierced through the alcohol cloud.

There must have been a fourth person in the scene though, someone he didn’t see. He vaguely remembered stepping toward the alley and shouting something about stopping. Then, face down on the cold pavement. He touched the left side of his head and winced at the discovery of a bloody, painful temple, a knot in the center rising like the calluses on his hands. His hand came away wet with blood. He wondered what he’d been hit with. Then he laughed. Wouldn’t it be funny if it was a baseball bat?