A figure stumbled through a dark alley in Logan square, a broken light from an outdoor bulb over a backdoor dimly flickering over his zombie-like motion. In the half cast shadow, pale skin was marked over by swollen flesh painted various shades of purple and thick, dried blood covering his nose and lip. Leland could barely walk, in fact, he could barely feel his own body. The pain had exceeded that nominal burn that brought him so much pleasure and descended into a floating cloud of constant ache, his brain unable to take much more.
It took only a few seconds of limping like a drunkard to realise he wasn’t going anywhere for a while, and he resigned himself to slide slowly down to the dirty ground. It didn’t matter anyway, his checked shirt was indistinguishable from all the blood coating it and his trousers were ripped in enough places to make even Hipsters blush. Leland liked to believe that he could win all the fights he put himself through but the truth was, he wasn’t a young man anymore. His muscles and joints cried out that message with each breath he took, diligently informing him that his bones were weary and his body tired. He could feel each sinew groan in short bursts of agony almost by malicious randomness, as if his neurons weren’t quite sure where to even ping anymore.
Still it had been quite the beating, perhaps the worst he’d had since moving to Chicago. Normally he got the cocksure young guys who had never trained beyond a gym and only thought they were tough because they hung out with weaklings. Tonight had been different though, he squared up against an army vet ten years his junior and quickly realised how much the decades had slowed him. Each punch was fast and impossible to dodge in time, and before he knew it, he had a 180 pound giant sitting on his stomach knocking the daylight out of him. If the host of the fighting club hadn’t stepped in, Leland would have died. Suppose that’s what you got for talking smack to a guy before getting into the ring. He could only ponder how well he would have fared if he was back at 24, young and fresh out of the army corp.
He reached to his shirt pocket, pulling out the flask that loosely sat and unscrewing the lid with his teeth. His knuckles were too bruised (and likely slightly broken) for the task, though his jaw didn’t take nicely to it either. Some people’s vice was smoking or drugs, for Leland it was booze and pain. He wasn’t an alcoholic but when in trouble, a good shot of rum was normally the calling. He managed to dribble it for all of five seconds before the alcoholic hit a cut on his lip, sending a burning sensation too harsh to keep his grip. “Urgh, fuck.”
It fell to the floor as Leland stared at the wasted liquor stream pathetically from the top, pooling by his feet. He couldn’t even get drunk to relieve the pain. He would have probably just sat there, wallowing in pain and a heavy dose of ironic self pity if he hadn’t heard the voice call out. He tried to sigh but he was sure one of his ribs no longer sat quite right, and every breath was like squeezing a bagpipe. She sounded young enough to be daughter, and what he certainly didn’t need right now was a reminder of his age. Instead his dark eyes squinted through half-closed lids, trying to make out the hazy shadow in the mist of the half hidden moon. All he got was a peering figure and long brown hair, a smile curling on his lips that likely looking more like a grimace.
“J…Just havin’ a little nap.” Leland joked, coughing harshly and wincing at the wave of pain that caused, his body curling into itself. It was amazing that despite all the damage to his body, he managed to keep his texan accent going so thickly.
“Nothing to…concern y-yourself about.”
There was a long time before the response came from the darkness, and Florence even thought for a moment about running away. She had been in the darkness before, and had seen more than her fair share of horrors when trawling around the streets at night. She knew what was hiding in the alleyways and behind dumpsters, and it was no longer her life or something that she wanted to be involved in.
After what felt like an eternity of waiting, a broken and weak voice made it’s way towards her and Florrie let out a small sigh. There was someone there that was injured, not someone looking to hurt or harm her. Tentatively making her way into the entrance of the alleyway, the brunette almost stumbled over the pile of limbs that was propped up against the wall, which slowly took the shape of a beaten and bruised man as her eyes got used to the darkness.
“Bloody hell.” Her voice was soft as she knelt down beside him, pulling out her phone to dial 911. “What the fuck happened to you?”
