The Pink Disaster

One

A man walks alone down a dark city street. He sees a flash of pink out of the corner of his eye. He turns. Nothing. He could have sworn that he heard the billowing of fabric in the wind. Imagination, probably. He takes one last glance over his shoulder. Nothing. He turns forward again. A wall of pink materialises out of the darkness. He tries to run but the same wall of women is suddenly behind him.
Surrounded completely by a circle of women in pink sarees, he hesitantly says "Who... who are you?"

"Justice"

And the beat down commences. They came all at once, whatever amount could find space, but in complete coordination, with pain and anger in their own eyes, as if they had suffered and were taking out their frustration.

And as quickly as they appeared, they were gone back into the night.

He lays on the ground, withering in pain, tears blinding him. For hours he lays there, muffled sobs leaving cracked lips. And when he is discovered by a local man and his friends, they merely shake their heads.

"Gulaabi Gang, huh?" One says, sipping from a beer. The broken man waits for them to help, to call a doctor, the police, anything. But as the man swallows his drink, he crouches down and says "Sucks to be knocked around unfairly, doesn't it?"

He nods softly, as he attempts to return to his feet. He spits out the distinct taste of blood from his mouth and wipes the trail of it on his sleeve. "It hurt... a lot..."

The man with drink had stood and leaned against the wall of the alley and cracked a wild smirk that revealed his crooked teeth. "Don't you think it hurt her too?" He had chuckled softly as he took another swig.

The person, in agony, choses to ignore anyone that, at the moment, doesn't will to help. He will have a difficult night. He knows it is coming. Even though his realisation urges him to rip apart his own self with his broken nails, he thinks he can bare any pain. After all, his ego still alive dictates "A man can suffer any pain."

He tries to walk as fast as he can. Perspiring, it's even a tedious task to concentrate on the direction that is to be taken. Finally he reaches his abode. A humble facility of housing it is, for his ego is responsible of his deeds, and in turn his results.

He tries to sleep, but at this time, sleep is the last thing he wants. He knows he can't help but recollect the horrors of what had been the pink disaster.

Finally, after hours of agony and trying, he doses off. But his sleep is as expected by him, a collection of poignance.

***