location - the streets of lupis
status - open; @calamitousstarters
what - homecoming
So. He hadn’t exactly thought this through.
At the time, all he’d been thinking was “Yes” and “Thank fuck” and “Finally” and “Home.” But, of course, he’d forgotten one crucial fact in his overwhelming relief at “escaping” his captors:
He hadn’t paid rent in almost three months.
Of course his locks would have been changed. His shit thrown out. Of-fucking-course. He’d left with no notice, after all. His fault. No home. Most likely no job, either. No pack. No friends. No... anything else.
Which, in the long run, was probably a good thing, right? Fresh start. No baggage. Everyone would be safe - no running, no fighting, no silver-tipped knives and vicious threats. Everyone would be safe, from him and his uncle’s fucking mess.
This was a good thing. He could handle this. He could. He would.
“I so cannot handle this.”
Ronan sank into a crouch on the side of the road, hugging his knees against his chest. The deep, lightly-scabbed lacerations on the left side of his face throbbed in time with the beat of his heart, emitting an almost unnatural level of heat. He wondered, idly, if they were infected. If they were ever going to heal.
It had been days since he’d been released, but the wounds weren’t improving much. They hurt, still searing with the same gut-wrenching intensity as the moment they were carved into his skin. The one bisecting his lip was the worst. It made eating and drinking difficult, as every time he moved his mouth, the scabs reopened and blood poured into his mouth, silver-tinged and vile.
He was... exhausted. While his face had taken the brunt of the abuse, the rest of his body was littered with smaller cuts and bruises, all inflicted with some form of silver. Moving was painful. Thinking ahead? Planning his next move? That was unsurmountable. At least right now.
“Okay, Ronan,” he murmured to himself. “Just get up. Stand up. Go somewhere. Anywhere.”