Notes

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon as Duke made his way home from another grueling shift at the factory. The flickering streetlights cast an eerie orange glow on the cracked sidewalk, creating pools of light and shadow that played tricks on his tired eyes. Duke quickened his pace, eager to get back to his apartment and off these sketchy streets.

The distant sound of glass breaking made him jump, his head swiveling towards the source. Probably just some punk kids causing trouble, he told himself, shaking off the unease prickling at the back of his neck. Still, he found himself glancing over his shoulder every few steps, scanning the empty street for signs of danger.

"Jeez, get a grip," Duke muttered to himself. "You're acting like a scared little kid."

He was just being paranoid. This was his neighborhood, the same route he walked every night. Nothing ever happened. But even as he repeated that reassurance in his head, Duke couldn't shake the feeling of eyes on his back, watching him from the shadows.

The attack came out of nowhere.

One minute Duke was rounding the corner of 5th and Main, the next he was being slammed face-first into the brick wall of the alley. Stars exploded behind his eyes as his cheekbone cracked against the rough surface. Before he could even cry out, a meaty hand clamped over his mouth, muffling his shout of pain and surprise.

"Shut up and hold still," a voice growled in his ear. The cold press of metal against his throat told Duke it wasn't a request.

His heart hammered against his ribs as he was spun around to face his attackers. Three men, their faces obscured by pulled-up hoods, loomed over him like specters. The one in the middle, a burly guy with prison tattoos snaking up his neck, held a wicked-looking knife to Duke's jugular.

"Wallet and phone. Now," Tattoo demanded, his breath hot and rank in Duke's face. "And don't even think about trying anything cute."

Duke swallowed hard, the bob of his Adam's apple grazing the knife's edge. With shaking hands, he fumbled for his back pocket, his panicked brain noting the sour stench of cheap booze wafting off the men. Great. Drunk and armed. This just kept getting better.

"P-please," Duke stammered as he held out his wallet with numb fingers. "Just take it. I don't want any trouble."

Tattoo snatched the worn leather billfold and tossed it to one of his cronies. "Search him," he ordered, never taking his eyes, or the knife, off Duke.

Rough hands pawed at Duke's jacket, his shirt, yanking and groping. He bit back a yelp as one of the men wrenched his arm behind his back, immobilizing him. The other patted down his legs with bruising force, digging into his pockets.

"He's clean," the one behind him reported. "Just some loose change and a phone."

"Toss the phone," Tattoo grunted. "Can't have him calling for help."

Duke watched helplessly as his cell skittered across the pavement, screen shattering on impact. There went his lifeline.

"Okay, you got what you wanted," Duke said, hating the tremor in his voice. "Now let me go. Please."

Tattoo's eyes glittered with a cruel amusement. "Oh, I don't think so, pal. See, my buddies and I, we're having a pretty good time here. Hate for it to end so soon."

Duke's stomach clenched with dread. "W-what do you mean? I gave you everything. I swear I don't have anything else!"

"That's where you're wrong, Richie Rich," the one holding his arm sneered. "You still got all them fancy clothes. Bet they'd fetch a pretty penny at the pawn shop."

"No," Duke breathed, horror dawning. "No, you can't -"

"Oh, we can." Tattoo's grin turned feral. "And we will. Boys, strip him."

What happened next was a blur of flailing limbs and tearing fabric. Duke bucked and writhed like a wild thing, kicking and clawing as hands ripped at his clothes. Buttons popped, seams split. The air filled with the cotton-shredding snarl of material giving way.

"Hold him, damn it!" Tattoo barked as Duke's elbow connected with his nose in a gush of blood.

A fist slammed into Duke's gut, doubling him over. As he gasped for air, his attackers redoubled their efforts, yanking his jacket down his arms, his shirt over his head. He was distantly aware of his shoes being wrenched off, his socks peeled away.

And then, the ultimate humiliation - hands at his fly, popping the button, dragging his jeans over his hips. Duke let out a broken cry as he felt his pants slide down his legs, tangling around his ankles. He stumbled, nearly falling as he was jerked upright by his hair.

Blinking through tears of pain and mortification, Duke looked down at himself and wanted to die. There he stood, in the middle of the filthy alley, clad in nothing but his white cotton briefs. The same briefs he'd thrown on that morning without a thought, never imagining that they'd be his sole remaining article of clothing by night's end.

For a moment, the alley was utterly silent. Duke's ragged breathing was the only sound. Then, like a dam breaking, the men erupted into howls of laughter.

"Well, well, well," Tattoo crowed, wiping his bloody nose on his sleeve. "Looks like Richie Rich is more of a tighty-whitey boy! Ain't that precious?"

"Tighty whities? Seriously? What are you, five?"

"I bet he still wets the bed in those!"

"Aw, you wear those for your mommy?" the one on the left mocked in a baby voice. "Does she still pick out your undies?"

"Maybe he's hoping to get lucky tonight!" the other chortled, giving Duke's behind a stinging slap that made him yelp. "Gotta dress to impress!"

Their laughter battered at Duke like physical blows, each jeer and taunt landing like a punch to the gut. Shame burned in his cheeks, in his chest. He wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole.

But even as he cowered there, nearly naked and utterly degraded, something fierce ignited in Duke's belly. A spark of defiance, of righteous fury. How dare these bastards rob him, strip him, mock him like this? How dare they take his dignity, his sense of safety?

He'd been passive for too long, too afraid to fight back. But he was done being a victim. To hell with his clothes, his phone, his money. He would not let them take his pride. Not without a fight.

Duke straightened up as best he could with his jeans hobbling his ankles. He squared his shoulders, lifted his chin. Looked his tormentors dead in the eye.

"Give me back my clothes," he said, quietly but firmly. "Now."

The men stopped laughing, their smiles fading into scowls.

"Excuse me?" Tattoo growled, taking a step forward. "You wanna run that by me again, boy?"

Duke swallowed hard, his heart rabbiting in his chest. But he held his ground. "I said, give me back my damn clothes. I'm not walking away in my underwear. I don't care what you do to me."

For a moment, the alley was so silent you could hear a pin drop. Duke braced himself for the blows he knew were coming. A beating was a small price to pay for his self-respect.

Then Tattoo started to laugh, a low, ugly chuckle that made Duke's skin crawl. "Well, boys, seems our friend here thinks he's a tough guy! Trying to make demands in his little boy undies. Isn't that cute?"

He turned to his snickering buddies, flicking his knife in a casual gesture. "What do you say we teach Tighty Whitey a lesson in manners? Show him what happens when he doesn't know his place?"

Duke barely had time to raise his fists before they were on him, a storm of punches and kicks that drove him to his knees. He felt his nose crunch, tasted blood on his tongue. Pain exploded in his ribs, his kidneys. But he lashed out blindly all the same, throwing wild haymakers that occasionally connected with a satisfying thud.

"Crazy son of a bitch!" one of the men yelped as Duke's fist glanced off his jaw. "Just stay down!"

But Duke would not, could not stay down. He staggered to his feet again and again, only to be beaten back to the ground. His briefs were stained with blood and grime, torn in places. But he felt no shame now, only a grim determination.

Let them see his underwear. Let the whole damn world see. He would not cower or hide. Not anymore.

It was a losing battle, of course. There were three of them and only one of him, and they had the advantage of sobriety and weapons. Eventually, Duke could fight no more. He lay curled on his side, panting and spitting blood, as Tattoo crouched over him.

"I gotta hand it to you, kid," he said, sounding almost impressed beneath the mockery. "You got balls. Tiny, tighty-whitey balls, but balls all the same."

He stood up, dusting off his hands. "Tell you what. You gave us a good show tonight, so I'm feeling generous. We'll let you keep your precious undies. Consider it a trophy."

He turned to his friends, jerking his head towards the mouth of the alley. "Let's bounce, boys. I think he's learned his lesson."

And just like that, they were gone, melting into the shadows like the phantoms they were. Duke lay there for a long time, trying to catch his breath, waiting for the pain to subside to a dull roar.

When he could finally move without screaming, he rolled gingerly to his hands and knees. His clothes lay strewn about him, shredded and filthy, a sad testament to the violation he'd endured. He gathered them up all the same, clutching them to his chest like a talisman.

Slowly, painfully, he got to his feet, swaying like a newborn foal. The night air raised goosebumps on his bruised and battered skin, but he barely felt the chill. He was numb all over, inside and out.

Duke looked down at his ruined briefs, the last remnant of his dignity. The defiance that had sustained him through the beating was gone now, replaced by a gnawing emptiness. What did it matter, fighting back? He'd still lost in the end. Still been humiliated and degraded, left with nothing but his underwear and his wounds.

But as he started the long, limping journey home, Duke felt something stir in his chest. Not hope, exactly. He was too raw for that. But a flicker of something like resolve. Like grit.

He had survived this. He was alive, and mostly whole. And while those bastards had taken almost everything from him, they hadn't managed to break him. Not completely.

Duke held onto that thought like a lifeline as he stumbled through the darkened streets, jumping at every shadow. It was a small comfort, but it was something. A spark to shelter against the cold and the fear and the long night ahead.

When he reached his apartment building, of course, he realized his keys were gone, lost somewhere in the scuffle. Duke nearly laughed at the absurdity of it. Locked out of his own home, in nothing but his mangled briefs. It was like the punchline to a cruel cosmic joke.

For a moment, he simply stood there, shivering and swaying, overcome by the sheer exhaustion of it all. The temptation to curl up on the stoop and wait for dawn, for rescue, was almost overwhelming.

But that spark in his chest flickered and caught, refusing to gutter out. He'd made it this far on his own. He couldn't quit now.

Drawing on the last reserves of his strength, Duke began the arduous climb up the fire escape, every step a new agony. His muscles screamed, his wounds wept. But he kept going, rung by brutal rung, until he reached his floor.

The window to his bedroom was, mercifully, unlocked. Duke nearly wept with relief as he tumbled over the sill, landing in a graceless heap on the floor. He was home. Broken and battered, half-naked and wholly traumatized, but home.

And as he lay there, breath rattling in his lungs, eyes staring sightlessly at the water-stained ceiling, Duke made himself a promise. A vow, written in blood and pain and the salt of his own tears.

He would heal from this. He would overcome this. And he would never, ever let anyone make him feel powerless again.

Not for his money, not for his dignity, and certainly not for his choice in underwear. From now on, he would wear his tighty-whities with pride, a badge of all he had survived.

Because he was more than his bruises, his scars, his briefs. He was a fighter. A survivor.

And no one could take that away from him. Not ever again.