"Help!" throw me someone
[x] Send “Help!” and I’ll generate a number, 1-15 – - [Accepting]
14. My muse will show up on your muse’s doorstep, bloody and beaten
He should have gone home.
It was stupid of him, Amy always chastised, to insist on living alone in an empty complex with his status in the city, but he always insisted he didn’t need protection. Protection meant trust, and he was never fond of letting such a thing form so easily when just as easily did it shatter. He didn’t need bodyguards or escorts, since, in his opinion, he wasn’t all that important. A pretty face in the news? Maybe. But Harmony Records has this thing about ‘spreading the wealth,’ so while he was gaining recognition and fame in the company’s top rank, he never felt the glamour of being a celebrity. Just look at his run-down apartment complex.
But every so often, those who didn’t understand the workings of Harmony would go to great lengths to resolve a pretty face to pulp, if only for a few extra bucks.
The poor suckers who stole his wallet were probably gaping right now at how he’d only kept seven dollars and eighty-nine cents in his leather pocket-warmer, with an ATM card and a license that stated a name they didn’t recognize at all, leaving nothing to greet them more shockingly than the blood-red eyes in the photo ID.
It nearly matched how they’d left him in the empty lot, beaten with red flowers staining his clothes and hair, roses of burning agony budding from cuts along his body. The wounds were fresh, but healing as he grasped weakly at his car door–which still swung open from him stepping out just minutes before. The screech of tires still rang in his ears from the escape his assailants had made in the car they’d stalked him from his apartment in.
His body ached. It screamed at him to stop moving as the magic that coursed in his veins surged in effort to heal his injuries, but he pressed on. His steps dragged along the pavement, hands clutching his lower abdomen where a knife had cut deep but evaded major organs. His right eye clenched itself tight, stinging from the blood that clouded his sight from a slit just above his brow, and his lips trembled.
His legs pushed forward as he reached for the door to the home, but just as soon as his raw knuckles grazed the door, his knees buckled and he collided with the wood with a thud, breaths jagged and shallow. His voice fell in a croak against the door frame, desperate, pleading.
“H-Help…”