The Plea
He was terrifyingly cold. He was not used to the feeling. His life’s blood had not stopped flowing from the gash across his face, from the broken flesh and bone in his nose, from his broken lip. The cuts on his face resulting from the punches were more minor though, and had scabbed well enough. He was fortunate for rain; his trail of blood was washed away by the water, so no one would be following it to find him. The police search for him was half-hearted at best, but there was no doubt they were out there, and aware.
He was in an awkward spot. Without a nation, without any kind of documentation, due to the rather unusual method of his ‘immigration’, he was by any measure an undocumented alien resident, without the rights afforded a citizen. If he was caught and accused of a crime, he could be held, indefinitely, without trial. Though doctors did generally protect their patient’s privacy, he was certain that there would be police waiting at various hospitals waiting for the admission of patients with particular injuries.
On the other hand his only option was to ask for help. The only people he could turn to in a time like this owed him nothing, didn’t even like him, for the most part. The shame of asking for help weighed on him almost as heavily as the threat of indefinite detention. Frozen in the decision point, he had pulled his phone out, under the cover of his jacket, and leaned over it, shielding it from the rain, and stared at it. His thumb had called up the contacts list, hovered over it, but did nothing.
There was also the third option. The easiest option, as the blood drained from him. To slip into that coldness, to let it take him into dreamless sleep forever, to fade and be forgotten. He slouched forward, eyelids trembling shut.
He hit the button; a number dialed. Tiran’s number. Ringing on the line. He pressed the phone to to his cheek roughly with a trembling hand. All he could do is hope for an answer
