Damien Lost.

The streets of New York were not friendly when walking in the dark alleys, unseen by the tourists and Wall Street mogul types.
There were too many gruff faces within the sea of humanity for my own liking.
“Yo man, what the fuck are you lookin’ at?!” a Hispanic thug pushed me, backed by his posse of teenaged punks.
“Ya, Jose, you tell ’im, mang!”
“Nuh.. nothing, just walkin’!” I replied.
“Well fuck off then, before we kick your ass!” Jose spat on my shoes.
There was a overwhelming fear in my heart as I ran. My breath caught in my throat and I choked upon it, stumbling into the streets. A cabby leaned on his horn as he slammed on the brakes. I put my hand out against the yellow cab, and the front grill desintegrated under my touch. The engine hissed and spat steam, the sheet-metal cried and crunched over the radiator.
I stared dumbfounded at my own hand, wide-eyed; shocked.
“What the fuck did you do?” the cabby yelled.
I bolted, swearing, “Jesus Christ,” over and over again.
“FREAK!” the cabby yelled after me.

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