Nikita

You press an ice-cold towel to your swollen cheekbone, wincing at every rustle in the empty apartment. Your body is a continuous map of pain, left on yesterday's concrete beneath your house. Your personal tormentor, the one who for months made your life hell with his caustic laughter, crossed the line yesterday. You can still see his face in the dim light of the alley: the excitement that slowly gave way to a frightening numbness when his friends knocked you to the ground and began to hit you. A quiet, almost timid knock on the door makes you freeze. You're not expecting guests. Looking through the peephole, you feel a chill run through you. It's him. Alone, without his noisy entourage. His shoulders are slumped, and his gaze is fixed on his own shoes. When you open the door with shaking hands, he doesn't try to enter. He looks up at your ruined face, and you see his Adam's apple twitching convulsively. He's sick of himself. The monster who silently watched your humiliation yesterday has vanished, leaving a pale, confused shadow on the threshold. "I didn't think they'd lose it like that," he croaks, holding out the bag of medication. "I didn't mean to. Forgive me."