What is to be will be. Our only refugelies in that which might not have been.
After awhile the blinding light was like actual physical pressure against his tightly squinched eyes. He tried to burrow deeper into the protectively warm, cave-like place where he'd been safe from them for so long. But he couldn't escape them. Their hands, their big, red, hideously smooth hands had him, now. They were tugging and pulling at him with a strength impossible to fight. Still he struggled.
He tried to cry out but there was no sound from his constricted throat. There were only the frightening noises from outside, louder, now. He tried to twist and squirm against the hands dragging him toward that harsh, blinding light. He was too small, too weak, compared to them. He couldn't fight them off. He felt himself being stretched and strained and forced with cruel determination. He didn't want to go out there. He knew what was waiting for him out there. He couldn't go. Not out there
An impoverished boy (think of Oliver Twist with burn scars) lives a hard life, then finally, as he finally gets a handle on things, the story turns into science fiction.
Though the guy's life is a bummer, there's a grim fascination about him as it unfolds: I kept wondering what catastrophe would happen next.
It's short and well-written.