What is left but dirt

They had staggered out of the warehouse. There were three of them. They walked without direction, but instead, with general purpose- for they knew they needed to find the main road. The skies had melted from black to grey since they had last set foot outside. Things seemed tranquil. A breeze blew. The clouds lifted and all around bathed in soft light under the blue overhead. They were relaxed. They reached the road. "Kids selling roses...thats cute," thought the first. One of the boys turned to the other, "just keep your hands in your pockets." Things were still pleasant. The world was passing slowly like an underwater dream. The kids came closer and suddenly surrounded them. They were no more than thirteen years in age, the youngest, perhaps,having seven. It was he who approached one of the three boys on the street. "Nice rose for you sir...maybe your pretty girlfriend no?" "No." "But they nice roses sir...you want." "No." The kid reached forward and placed is hand into the pocket of the older boy. He had his hand on the leather. He began to retrieve what he thought would be his lunch. An open palm connected with the boys face with such force the slap was heard half way down the block. The young pick pocket had his feet lifted from the ground, the wind forced from his lungs and then he found the pavement. Silence enveloped and surrounded the gang of youngsters. The youngest sat there on the pavement with his eyes that stretched and widened with every hanging second. Time seemed frozen. And then, the scream came. Loud, piercing and assured. Time resumed. Ten pairs of pupils settled on the culprit, whose actions it seemed, and just caught up with his brain. Then chaos. The young boys found beer bottles and some broke them and hurled them and others just hurled them. The brave ran towards him and jumped using the bottles as a sort of club, striking down on the back of his neck, his stomach and head. Others found sticks and threw them like spears. Mud was sprayed. The two boys who remained stared in disbelief as they were taunted and threatened by the gang. They made a pass for the road. They waved their arms, but no one would stop. Eventually they hailed a taxi. They grabbed their friend who was, by now, a pile of mud and blood and glass shards and threw him in the taxi. "To the hospital," they screamed in Spanish. They drove away- their rear view mirror flashes of violence and worlds shattered. The day had, by then, reached boiling and all around seared in pain.