Bro left the door unlocked when he left today. He left you completely unrestrained, too. You know enough about him to know it's pointless. He isn't sloppy enough to actually forget to do those things.
Still, it's the most open chance at escape he's given you the whole time he's had you. You'd be a fool to not at least try it.
In the main room of the apartment, his shoes aren't by the door. You can't say you didn't expect that. You haven't seen a pair of shoes that were for you in years now.
You walk out of the apartment barefoot, half expecting Bro to be waiting for you outside. The way is clear. You make it to the lobby with no issue. The front door of his apartment building is well shaded by an awning.
When you try to step out onto the concrete that had been baking in the Texan sun all day, you pull back automatically from the searing pain on the sole of your foot.
You don't even know where you could go. The city streets are unfamiliar to you; any clue you might have had about the neighborhoods has been lost to time. Still, you can tell he wants a chase, and you know you'll be in more trouble if you don't keep playing along.
You decide on a direction and dash out, running to minimize the time your soles spend on the ground. You stay on the lookout for patches of shade and grass, anything you can run over that won't hurt so bad. Every time you cross the streets, the asphalt of the road hurts more, and you quickly learn to jump across the white paint strips in the crosswalks instead, even though it slows you down.
Despite all your efforts, the pain in your feet is unbearable. You can feel yourself slowing down. Your legs hurt from the exertion, and your heart is pounding so hard from the work and heat that you feel dizzy. You recognize the sensation of being watched, but you don't bother to check if it's paranoia or not. The fleeting thought of giving up and throwing yourself at his feet for forgiveness crosses your mind, but you know it won't do you any good. It never does. You force yourself to speed up again.
You hit the ground roughly before you even noticed him approach. His knee is on your back fast enough that your body doesn't have time to bounce. You can feel the heat of the ground radiating through your clothes, threatening to burn the skin of your chest and stomach.
He doesn't let you catch your breath before he grabs you by the hair and forces the left side of your face against the pavement below you. You don't even have enough air in your lungs to scream, and the air directly above the pavement is too hot for you to take a full breath.
You instead just let out pathetic cries and try to suck in what little air you can as Bro grinds your face into the rough asphalt. You know he'll only stop when he's decided he's had enough. You won't waste your precious breath begging.
After what feels like hours but must have been only a minute or two, Bro yanks your hair to pull your face off of the pavement. The air on your wound hardly feels better, and your neck stays tense instinctively, like you expect him to slam you back down.
He doesn't. He holds your face inches above the ground for a few more seconds before getting off of you. You stay on the ground for a second longer, letting the pavement continue to cook you, to make sure he won't change his mind. You get up slowly, so as to not provoke him into tackling you again. Once you're on your feet, you quickly wobble back onto the slightly cooler concrete.
He fists his hand into the back of your shirt and pushes you forward, guiding you back to his apartment. The soles of your feet still burn with every step, but you know better than to complain.
The tears from your left eye sting as they roll through the burn. They drip down your face in odd paths, following the new texture of your cheek more than the contours of your facial structure.
You try to avoid looking in the mirror when Bro leads you into the bathroom. You don't want to see the damage; you don't want to know how bad it is. You're glad the mirror is on your right side, where the profile of your face looks mostly normal from what you can see out of the corner of your eye.
Bro doesn't let you avoid looking at it forever, though. Once he's gathered all the supplies to take care of the burn, he forces you to face the mirror. When you try to turn your head away, he grabs your chin. You follow the gentle pressure he puts on it, hoping he won't feel the need to press harder on your raw skin.
You still avoid eye contact with your reflection, staring up into the right corner of the mirror. It doesn't help enough. Even out of the corner of your eyes, the damage is glaring. A large patch of your face is red, raw, and bleeding.
There's no way it can heal here. You've withstood some pretty bad injuries from him, you know all too well how skillfully he can set a bone, but you don't want to think about him performing a skin graft. Hopefully, he'll enjoy seeing the scar, and a medical option like that won't even come to mind for him.
if u draw bro strider and he doesnt have awesome titties its like, no youre not drawin him wrong but im just. sad. :C give him his titties he cant see without his big boobies.
if u draw bro strider and he doesnt have awesome titties its like, no youre not drawin him wrong but im just. sad. :C give him his titties he cant see without his big boobies.
