He thought he was floating.
The air around him was weightless. The world seemed to stand still.
He opened his eyes, and what greeted him was darkness. Slowly, he raised his arms and pushed himself out of the filth that had nearly taken his life the night before. His body was still sore. Every movement sent dull aches through his limbs, but compared to yesterday, it was tolerable.
He looked up and saw the rusted edge of the garbage container above him. Reaching out, he gripped it with trembling hands and tried to push himself up. His arms strained, muscles shaking, but he couldn't do it. His hands slipped from the slick, damp edge, and he dropped back down into the heap with a soft thud.
He let out a defeated sigh and wiped his palms on his pants, if they could still be called that. They were little more than rags clinging to his legs.
That's when he noticed his arms. They were thin, malnourished, the skin stretched tight over bone. Old cuts and scrapes crossed his forearms like a map, some half-healed, others raw. Purple bruises bloomed beneath the surface, and dried, crusted blood clung to his knuckles. Dirt filled the cracks between his fingers. He looked like something half-dead that had crawled its way out of the grave.
He stared at them for a moment, confusion and unease stirring in his chest. He tried to remember how he had ended up here, what had happened before the alley, before the storm, before the darkness, but nothing came. No name. No face. No memory at all. The harder he tried to think, the sharper the pain grew behind his eyes until he winced and gave up.
He lowered his hands back into the trash. The waste was dry in some spots, damp in others where the night's humidity had settled. Grabbing a handful, he began piling it into a corner, pushing and packing it down until it formed a mound. Then another. Then another. It was slow, painful work, and every motion drained him further. The only thing he had eaten was the foul sludge from last night, and his strength was nearly gone.
Still, he didn't stop.
Finally, he had made a small, uneven hill. Wiping his brow left only more filth smeared across his face, but he didn't care. He was finally going to leave.
He trudged toward the corner, his foot slipping once on the dry metal, but he caught himself with his left hand. Slowly, he climbed the mound, each step sinking and sliding beneath him. It wasn't much of an accomplishment, only a few steps high, but standing atop it felt like victory.
He lifted his arms again. This time, with the trash beneath him, he could reach the rim. He pressed down hard and pulled himself up, swinging one leg over the edge. His arms trembled violently, every muscle screaming as he lowered himself down the other side.
His foot searched for the wall to brace against, but it slipped, and he dropped the final distance with a soft thud. His knees buckled, and he stumbled, catching himself against the metal container.
He stayed like that for a moment, breathing hard. Each inhale came sharp and ragged, fogging against the sunlit wall.
When he finally looked up, he saw his reflection staring back at him through the faint gleam of sunlight on the metal.
A boy, sixteen, maybe younger. Eyes swollen, the left one nearly shut, the right glazed with exhaustion. A deep cut ran from his cheek to his chin, splitting his lip and caking one side of his face with dried blood. Filth covered everything, mud, grime, something darker. Purple bruises wrapped around his neck like fingerprints. His shirt hung in tatters, soaked through with brown and yellow stains. The left sleeve was completely gone, exposing more bruises and shallow cuts.
His ribs showed beneath the skin. His stomach was sunken, his collarbones sharp enough to cut. What little clothing remained barely clung to him, one leg of his shorts torn away, leaving only the right intact. His feet were bare except for a single sock, riddled with holes, one toe poking through.
He looked down, then back up at the reflection. His lips trembled into something almost like a smile.
"You… you look like shit," he muttered hoarsely.
A weak laugh escaped him, but it quickly turned into a violent cough that doubled him over. He hacked and wheezed until his throat burned and his chest ached. When it finally passed, he spat to the side and leaned against the wall, shaking.
After catching his breath, he tore off what was left of his shirt and wiped his face with it. It barely helped, only spreading the dirt thinner, but at least it felt cleaner.
He turned toward the mouth of the alley. The rain was gone now, replaced by light. Sunlight poured through the narrow gap above, painting the wet stone in gold. Far down the street, he could see people moving again, some talking, others hurrying beneath the shade of awnings and stalls.
The thin, warm rays that slipped through the narrow gap above landed on him like a soft blanket. He closed his eyes, letting the light touch his face. For a moment, the warmth felt almost alive, almost kind. He stood on his toes, trying to reach a little higher, to catch just a bit more of it—but he was too short.
With one last deep breath, he steadied himself and began to walk. His legs trembled, his feet scraped against the ground, but he didn't stop until he stepped out of the shadows of the alley and into the warmth of morning.
Whatever the world was, whatever it had in store for him, he would face it, if only because he had no other choice.