Well of Sorrows

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Colin saw Walter’s foot a moment before it connected with his stomach. Air gushed from his lungs as the kick landed and he folded in upon himself in the hard-packed dirt of the alley, his arms cradling his gut. Pain exploded from his abdomen, radiating outward into his legs, smothering the aches and pains from all the other blows Walter and his gang had landed earlier. Colin rocked back and forth, tried not to cry out, the pain in his stomach spreading to his thighs, sending tentative spikes into his lower back And then, with a sickening sensation-a loose, queasy, tingling sensation-his bladder gave.

Colin’s eyes flew wide in horror and he gasped, spittle flecked with blood from where he’d bitten his inner cheek flying from his lips. He felt warmth spread through his underlinen and breeches, and he squeezed his eyes closed tight. Hot tears burned his cheeks; tears he’d managed not to shed as the gang cornered him and began beating him, tears he’d vowed he wouldn’t shed again after the last time they’d found him. He fought them as he pulled his knees in even tighter, as he tried to hide the blotch of wetness that now covered the front of his breeches. But he couldn’t hide the sharp, pungent stench.

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