Suffering Builds Character

It was nearing the end of fall in the city. The trees in the park were nearly bare, and the few remaining leaves were brown and dead and barely clinging to the gently quivering branches as a cold breeze passed through. A small bundle on an old bus stop bench tucked into itself further as the breeze passed. The little shelter did nothing to protect from the cold. The bundle was a girl, twenty years old and wishing the cold would just take her life.
She was almost too thin, dirty, and anyone that chanced a glance could easily tell she was homeless. The ratty, old boots on her feet were at least a size too big. Her clothes were old and dirty and stretched from overuse. She had no jacket to protect her from the cold. The only one she had was stolen from her by a homeless man much stronger than she was in her state. Most times, she was able to fend off men like him, but she had just gone days without eating and was too weak to stop him. She had managed to find a cardigan, but it was no match against the steadily dropping temperature.
Another breeze had her sighing and trying to curl into herself even more. At this point, her face was burrowed into her knees in a feeble attempt to stay warm and she had never felt more pathetic. She had been able to survive like this for seven years, but she was so close to giving up. This wasn't a life worth living, so what was the point in trying anymore? It was a thought that constantly plagued her mind. She wanted it to end, she wanted the release from her existence so desperately. But she thought herself a coward. She couldn't find it in herself to end it. Many days were spent on bridges, or staring longingly up at the tops of buildings, but she could never bring herself to act.
She didn't get any sleep that night. The icy metal of the bus stop bench was nowhere near worthy of sleeping on. She felt the cold digging into her bones. Her stomach didn't spare her the pain of starvation, and her mind was unrelenting to what was left of her soul.

The afternoon of the following day found her wandering the busy city streets, ignoring the nearly crippling pain in her belly and the unpleasant tingle of dirt on her skin. Her eyes, blue hues that lost their ocean luster far too early in life, searched her surroundings for any opportunity of food or money. Seven years wandering the streets of different cities taught her a thing or two about thieving. She made sure to only take from those who wouldn't miss it. She only took from the privileged. Seven years taught her never to get caught. She knew how to approach and slip away without her wealthy victim ever noticing until she was long gone.
This day proved another failure for the girl. Another day of hunger. Another day of misery. Her legs, nearly too thin like the rest of her, felt like lead as she walked. She didn't know how much further she could go, living like she was. Her luck was dwindling quickly as the days passed. She forced herself to turn into an alley between two buildings, a gesture to get out of sight in case she collapsed from her growing weakness. An alley was a suitable place to die so pitifully, wasn't it?
As luck would have it, or lack of luck as it was, a trio of men stood toward the back of the alley. The girl stumbled to a stop and stared in a daze at the men for a moment before turning around and attempting to leave. She felt their ill intentions the moment she spotted them, and the feeling only grew when three pairs of eyes turned on her.
"Where are you going?" she heard an oily voice call out from behind her. She ignored the voice and tried to keep walking but, in an instant it seemed, a hand was clasped tightly around her arm, holding her in place. "I asked you a question. Where are you going?" the same oily voice growled quietly. She turned her eyes up to him, hiding the cold fear in her shrinking gut as best she could. He matched his voice well. His dark hair was as greasy as his voice, his beady eyes just as malevolent as the rest of him.
"What does it matter?" she asked, her accented voice steady and quiet. The man grimaced down at her.
"Me and my men here don't want you to leave. We're gonna have some fun with you," he sneered, increasing the pressure on her arm as he pulled her further into the alley. She tried to pull away, she tried to fight, but it only got her weak frame shoved into the wall as the other two men began to approach her, grinning evilly at her. "Try to get away," the oily man growled, pressing a gun under her chin, "you die."
"You'd be doing me a favor," she said, pulling the smallest smirk at her attacker. The short comment caught the man off guard just long enough for her to bring her knee harshly upward between his legs and run. Several harsh words were shouted from her fallen attacker before a gunshot rang out through the alley. A sudden flare of pain brought the girl to the dirty alley ground, and she had just enough time to see a trail of blood coming from her thigh before she was pounced on and pinned to the ground. She couldn't see who was on top of her, nor comprehend what he was saying. All she could do was struggle pathetically under the weight of the body.
It took her a moment to realize whichever man was on top of her had suddenly been distracted. A fourth member had appeared in the alley, and was speaking harshly to the men around her. She could hardly make out what was being said, but she gathered this new member was calling her attackers off. She was pulled to her feet and held roughly against a chest, and next thing she knew, another shot had sounded in the alley. She was released and she stumbled to the side to see that her attacker was crumpled on the ground with a busted knee cap. Unable to support her weight or consciousness any longer, she fell back to the ground, her mind and vision going black.
She drifted in and out of consciousness. In her repetitive waking moments, she was able to make out her surroundings. She was in a car. A van judging by her hazy vision. She felt herself spread out in the back, felt pressure on her throbbing leg, and heard several voices, all belonging to men, though she couldn't make out what was being said. She could feel the warmth of the man aiding her, heard him speaking to her, but she couldn't form the words to answer.

Blue eyes opened suddenly, darting around the surroundings. There was no more shaking movement of a car, no more voices. She tried to pull herself up quickly, but found her movements to be clumsy and sluggish. She discovered herself to be without her pants, a white bandage wrapped around her left thigh. She looked around more carefully, and flinched when she saw a man sitting in a chair by a door. He stood up when she noticed him, and she shrunk into herself, trying to cover her bare legs with her arms, but only hissed in pain as she tried to pull her leg up.
"You are going to pull the stitches, don't move like that," the man said, his accent thick. He was a scruffy man with brown hair and lazy blue eyes. He was clad in strange clothes consisting of combat boots, cargo pants, and a bullet proof vest on top of all of that. If she wasn't scared enough already, this man only made it worse. "You need to eat, now that you're awake," he said in the same calm tone, knocking on the door. When it opened, the man left, but returned shortly with bread and a glass of water. He approached her cautiously, trying not to startle her any further, but he wasn't surprised to see her shrink even further, staring up at him with fearful blue eyes.
"Who are you?" she choked out weakly. The man only offered a small grin before squatting down by her cot.
"Eat first, I will answer your questions after. Now, I didn't bring you much, but you will only hurt yourself by eating too much at once," he said, holding out the bread and water. She took it from him cautiously, and hesitated before tearing a small piece of bread off. He took the glass and napkin away from her when she was finished, and pulled his chair up closer to her cot.
"I am Barsad, to answer your question," he said, watching her calmly.
"What's going on?" she questioned.
"I stopped those men from hurting you. I work with them, but... not for much longer. They will face the consequences of their actions. What is your name?" he said. She stared at him warily. "You know mine, it's all right to tell me yours," he coaxed patiently.
"Sidonie Domitrovich," she answered.
"French and Russian, yes?" he said.
"French and Ukrainian. My mother had always liked French names. But I don't have any French blood," she said.
"Well it is a pretty name. Sidonie, you may wash if you want. I'll show you where to go. You will get a change of clothes, and once you're finished, you will get some of the answers I am sure you want," he said, standing. "Can you walk all right?"