LOCATION: somewhere outside of Moscow
TIME: 3 months prior
{ @gabekhalil }
Pain. Otto's right temple throbbed as blood seeped down from above his brow. It trickled over the bruised contours of his cheek bone and ducked under his jaw. Dripping down his neck onto the collar of his shirt, it itched at his irritated stumble as it threatened to dry. A jagged split tore across his forehead, peeling the tender skin back from the thin layer of muscle that was exposed to the dusty air. He could feel the cold nipping into the wound, beginning to coagulate the deep red blood. Lifting his bloody hand, Otto pushed a strip of his shirt that he'd ripped off from the bottom onto the cut with a wince. It stung down into his eyebrow, the torn skin spreading down to just centimetres above his eye, but that was the least of his worries.
He walked with a limp, a gouge in his leg hindering his movement as he headed to shelter in the form of a falling down building. It seemed fitting for a man with a body that was currently falling apart to seek refuge in a structure that was in greater ruin. Each step made the slash in his left thigh scream and his other hand held another section of his shirt to it, stifling the blood flow. His fingers were sticky. Under his fingernails would stay red for days.
Despite the state of him, Otto had been lucky. Although he was wounded and vulnerable, he was still breathing. Ambushed by another survivor hungry for the rucksack strapped to his back the outcome could have been much worse. His weapon in the form of a metre length of metal piping swung from knotted rope on his rucksack. Red smeared its length but it was not his. He tried not to think about it, the pain of his wounds pushing dark thoughts from his mind for the time being. They were sure to come back to him soon enough.
Sweat matted down his mousy-brown hair and drew his clothes to his skin from the exertion of trying to get out of the open so quickly when all his muscles wanted was rest. The cool air made his hot skin prickle. Dust seemed to stick to him. He blinked rapidly through it. His aching lungs made him pant like a dog.
Shelter was within reach. When the crumbling wall was an arm's stretch away he allowed his body to fall into it, sliding down the stone that left scrapes and chalk on his clothing. That was the last of his concerns. He looked around him and could see no one, but he knew his senses were failing him as he ran on pure adrenaline and pain. Shaking fingers tugged out the long knife from his boot, leaving it in his lap in case of another ambush. Otto began the process of prising his rucksack off his shoulders. He had some final dregs of whiskey he could use to sterilise the wounds. He had a needle and thread. He also had bloody hands, jerking uncontrollably, that might do more harm than good.
