there wouldn’t be anyone to help him. none at all; none knew him nor cared enough to extend their hand towards him, guide him home maybe? home where his mother would treat the bleeding wounds and kiss his forehead as if he was still a small child that scraped his knee instead, not a man whose wings got ripped. october, 2010. he still looked around the age of twenty one, tall with dark hair and eyes as darker as winter’s cold nights where stars could barely be seen on the night sky. he was shirtless, but freezing was not the problem. the problem was the pain, the unbearable pain that left him crying his eyes out on the cold ground.
he tried to wrap his arms around himself, but couldn’t move, no. back arched as the wind blew against his open wounds from where blood was falling as if it was some sort of cascade- the summer’s light making the water orange, but this was crimson. fingers were covered in blood and now he took in a deep breath, screaming as he tried to get up, only barely. if he could crawl somewhere safe before he lost more blood, that would be amazing. it was dark, and his vision was blurred by the hot and big tears falling from his eyes.
Patch tried. he tried to move, his fingers were digging into the ground but no, all he managed to do was flip over and lie on his stomach. the stones were uncomfortable against his abdomen, some even cutting into the soft flesh of it. he was a crying and screaming mess, fists hitting the ground.
was this how desperation felt? to know that there wouldn’t be anyone to save you from this, to make the pain cease or stop? to know that you won’t feel someone’s soft touch as they tried to calm you down? to know that none.. cared? he felt hopeless, there was nothing left to do apart from accepting his fate— apart from admitting defeat. temples rested on the ground and he took in deep breaths, crimson falling over his shoulders as his chest heaved. the night was silent, comforting even. could he die from blood loss? he’d have to find out, sooner or later.
Patch gave up fighting, it was useless. if anything, moving was a bad idea, he’d only hurt himself more. there was no hope left for him, he doubted anyone would come around soon enough or if they would, they’d get this beautiful image of an angel whose wings got ripped as a morning gift.
sleep, sleep… comforting, dark sleep. he needed it. Patch was exhausted, this would help indeed.. sleep was what he needed..
so he closed his eyes as tears kept falling down and fell asleep.