| May 20, 2016 19:33:32 GMT -5 |
Post by Alfred F. Jones on May 20, 2016 19:33:32 GMT -5
it's a
revolution
Word count: 1048
Tags: Leon
Well that had not gone well.
Alfred braced himself against the concrete wall as he held his hand against his abdomen. Dark red blood seeped through his fingers, dripping onto the snow-covered ground.
He really should've thought this through more carefully. More carefully before getting stabbed in the gut, for sure. Not that Alfred really thought anything through carefully these days. Alfred winced. How deep had the cut gone? It was a long gash, and knife cuts were always messy. Alfred hoped there wasn't any permanent damage.
It was absolutely freezing in Russia, which didn't help matters at all. Alfred shivered as a gust of wind blew through the alleyway. He didn't have as much clothing as he'd like. And he was hungry. He hadn't had a real meal in a while...how long exactly, Alfred couldn't remember.
He used to imagine running away would be like it was in the movies or books. He would camp out in the woods, roast marshmallows, dig roots, eat off the land. He'd grow a beard maybe, find a wild dog and become best friends with it. None of that had happened. Not even the beard. Alfred had some stubble, but his facial hair stubbornly refused to grow past that stage.
Not that Alfred ever thought of that anymore. All he thought about now was Matthew. Matthew. His brother's very name made Alfred seize up with guilt and desperation. Matthew. How could Alfred have just left him there like that? How could he have run, run in the opposite direction, so intent on preserving his own life that he'd lost his brother? After all that Alfred had tried to make up for his past mistakes, he ended up committing the greatest one of all.
He'd been holding onto Matthew's hand. Holding onto Matthew's hand when they took him. Alfred had let go. Had let his brother slip away from him.
And now Matthew was gone. Really gone. Alfred had come all this way to Russia to find him and Matthew was nowhere to be found. Alfred had looked into Weeds of Tomorrow, the place they sent all mutant kids. He was sickeningly familiar with the procedures for sending kids there, but he had absolutely no idea what happened after. The very idea struck fear in his heart. And Matthew? As far as Alfred knew, Matthew was nowhere to be found.
Alfred shivered more violently than before. He was so terribly cold, even more so than usual. At least he wasn't that hungry anymore. Hunger was, after all, what had landed him in this mess. Should've known better than to try to steal food from that man, but who in the world would have guessed that he had a knife? He hadn't even managed to get the food either, had dropped it when the man had slashed at him and sprinted off until his knees gave way and he'd realized the cut was deeper than he'd thought.
There was a doctor somewhere near here. Alfred had heard of him through word of mouth. Not like hospital doctors; no, this was someone who worked underground. Alfred knew he couldn't even venture near a hospital without risk of deportation. Maybe they would even arrest him in the U.S. At the very least he'd be detained. This doctor was Alfred's only real shot. And right now, Alfred was struggling to remember exactly where he lived.
Part of Alfred wanted to take that as a sign. That Alfred should just give up. It wouldn't be difficult. Nobody noticed when a homeless guy keeled over and died. Maybe he'd die from the wound, if it was deep enough or infected. Or maybe he'd die from the cold. Alfred heard that dying from the cold wasn't that bad in the end. You were too numb to feel anything, really, and would end up falling asleep. That didn't sound so bad. He could just sit...in this alleyway...
…
No. No. Alfred wasn't going to...he couldn't just die. Not yet. He just needed to try, just a little harder. And then if that failed too, Alfred could die. Not like off himself die, like...who knew. He could figure that out later.
The doctor, the doctor... He had to remember. He was almost certain it was in this direction. A shitty part of town, but then again, at least there was a roof.
Alfred stumbled out onto the street, looking around blearily for a sign. It took almost five minutes before he found one. Novaya...New Street. Alfred would have laughed if not for the pain in his stomach. God knew this street hadn't been new in at least half a century.
The doctor was here though. Novaya, that was definitely the street name. What was the doctor's name? Something that started with L. Leonard? No. Not quite. Alfred could worry about his name later. Right now he needed to find the apartment. 1732 Novaya, which was...
Alfred came to a stop in front of an apartment building.
Right here.
There was no buzzer or doorman, so Alfred let himself in and dragged himself up the stairs. What floor was the man on? Something that started with F. Fourth? Fifth?
Alfred could try both. What was there to lose anyways? This was a sketchy part of town. What was the worst that could happen? Someone calling the police on him?
Alfred reached the fourth floor and pressed the doorbell for the first door. “Is there a doctor in here?” Alfred asked hoarsely. The pain in his stomach was growing stronger; he probably hadn't done himself any favors, climbing the stairs.
No answer. Alfred moved to the next door, repeated the question. “Go the hell away!” someone shouted.
Looked like he'd have to go to the fifth floor then. Alfred grimaced as he hauled himself up the stairs step by step, leaning against the railing to hold himself upright. Maybe he'd fall over and that'd be the end. Would be simpler.
Alfred reached the fifth floor and knocked heavily on the door before remembering there was a doorbell. “Is there a doctor here?” Alfred called out, leaning against the wall. God forbid he have to drag himself down the stairs again. At this point, he might as well just give up and give in here.
Alfred braced himself against the concrete wall as he held his hand against his abdomen. Dark red blood seeped through his fingers, dripping onto the snow-covered ground.
He really should've thought this through more carefully. More carefully before getting stabbed in the gut, for sure. Not that Alfred really thought anything through carefully these days. Alfred winced. How deep had the cut gone? It was a long gash, and knife cuts were always messy. Alfred hoped there wasn't any permanent damage.
It was absolutely freezing in Russia, which didn't help matters at all. Alfred shivered as a gust of wind blew through the alleyway. He didn't have as much clothing as he'd like. And he was hungry. He hadn't had a real meal in a while...how long exactly, Alfred couldn't remember.
He used to imagine running away would be like it was in the movies or books. He would camp out in the woods, roast marshmallows, dig roots, eat off the land. He'd grow a beard maybe, find a wild dog and become best friends with it. None of that had happened. Not even the beard. Alfred had some stubble, but his facial hair stubbornly refused to grow past that stage.
Not that Alfred ever thought of that anymore. All he thought about now was Matthew. Matthew. His brother's very name made Alfred seize up with guilt and desperation. Matthew. How could Alfred have just left him there like that? How could he have run, run in the opposite direction, so intent on preserving his own life that he'd lost his brother? After all that Alfred had tried to make up for his past mistakes, he ended up committing the greatest one of all.
He'd been holding onto Matthew's hand. Holding onto Matthew's hand when they took him. Alfred had let go. Had let his brother slip away from him.
And now Matthew was gone. Really gone. Alfred had come all this way to Russia to find him and Matthew was nowhere to be found. Alfred had looked into Weeds of Tomorrow, the place they sent all mutant kids. He was sickeningly familiar with the procedures for sending kids there, but he had absolutely no idea what happened after. The very idea struck fear in his heart. And Matthew? As far as Alfred knew, Matthew was nowhere to be found.
Alfred shivered more violently than before. He was so terribly cold, even more so than usual. At least he wasn't that hungry anymore. Hunger was, after all, what had landed him in this mess. Should've known better than to try to steal food from that man, but who in the world would have guessed that he had a knife? He hadn't even managed to get the food either, had dropped it when the man had slashed at him and sprinted off until his knees gave way and he'd realized the cut was deeper than he'd thought.
There was a doctor somewhere near here. Alfred had heard of him through word of mouth. Not like hospital doctors; no, this was someone who worked underground. Alfred knew he couldn't even venture near a hospital without risk of deportation. Maybe they would even arrest him in the U.S. At the very least he'd be detained. This doctor was Alfred's only real shot. And right now, Alfred was struggling to remember exactly where he lived.
Part of Alfred wanted to take that as a sign. That Alfred should just give up. It wouldn't be difficult. Nobody noticed when a homeless guy keeled over and died. Maybe he'd die from the wound, if it was deep enough or infected. Or maybe he'd die from the cold. Alfred heard that dying from the cold wasn't that bad in the end. You were too numb to feel anything, really, and would end up falling asleep. That didn't sound so bad. He could just sit...in this alleyway...
…
No. No. Alfred wasn't going to...he couldn't just die. Not yet. He just needed to try, just a little harder. And then if that failed too, Alfred could die. Not like off himself die, like...who knew. He could figure that out later.
The doctor, the doctor... He had to remember. He was almost certain it was in this direction. A shitty part of town, but then again, at least there was a roof.
Alfred stumbled out onto the street, looking around blearily for a sign. It took almost five minutes before he found one. Novaya...New Street. Alfred would have laughed if not for the pain in his stomach. God knew this street hadn't been new in at least half a century.
The doctor was here though. Novaya, that was definitely the street name. What was the doctor's name? Something that started with L. Leonard? No. Not quite. Alfred could worry about his name later. Right now he needed to find the apartment. 1732 Novaya, which was...
Alfred came to a stop in front of an apartment building.
Right here.
There was no buzzer or doorman, so Alfred let himself in and dragged himself up the stairs. What floor was the man on? Something that started with F. Fourth? Fifth?
Alfred could try both. What was there to lose anyways? This was a sketchy part of town. What was the worst that could happen? Someone calling the police on him?
Alfred reached the fourth floor and pressed the doorbell for the first door. “Is there a doctor in here?” Alfred asked hoarsely. The pain in his stomach was growing stronger; he probably hadn't done himself any favors, climbing the stairs.
No answer. Alfred moved to the next door, repeated the question. “Go the hell away!” someone shouted.
Looked like he'd have to go to the fifth floor then. Alfred grimaced as he hauled himself up the stairs step by step, leaning against the railing to hold himself upright. Maybe he'd fall over and that'd be the end. Would be simpler.
Alfred reached the fifth floor and knocked heavily on the door before remembering there was a doorbell. “Is there a doctor here?” Alfred called out, leaning against the wall. God forbid he have to drag himself down the stairs again. At this point, he might as well just give up and give in here.
i suppose
by Worldie for Leia
