He saw his own blood inches away from his eyeball, for that split-second it hung there, a perfect sphere made all the more brilliant by the clouds of tear gas and the pulsating blue and red lights in the immediate background. Followed immediately by crippling pain of the officer's club on the highest part of his cheekbone. The last thing he saw was pavement.

A cascade of images washed over him, his first temper tantrum, his first skinned knee, his first time in the penalty box, his first car crash, his first witnessed death.

Once again pavement. He felt two hands grab the back of his arm, all of the sudden he was back to his feet, everything was in slow-motion, an angry mob and riot police. Molotovs exchanged with rubber bullets.

"Don't fight me son." A voice said so close to him he could feel the breath. The chill of defeat radiated up his spine from the ratcheting shut of handcuffs on his left wrist. Like a flash, without hesitation his right fist met the face that was restraining him, the officer winced and took a knee, as the tip of a steel toed work boot met his throat and forced him on his back. choking on his own blood he grabbed his radio and garbled "fifteen at three o' clock."

Turning around, the young man shouted "WE ARE NOT NUMBERS, WE ARE NAMES!" Met only with the empty shrill of sirens and a voice over the loud speaker "cease and desist you are all under arrest." A trail of smoke and a hissing sound accompanied by the twang as a fresh tear gas can lands at his feet, the young man scoops the can bolting ahead of the crowd, and throws it right back. "WE ARE NOT CRIME REPORTS WE ARE HISTORY!"