The Country from Hell
Opening one eye because the other is oozed shut, you stare up at the gray Iadian sky. You seem to remember it was a hot day, but here in the alley it feels like a mythical, eternal winter. As is your custom whenever someone punches you unconscious, you try to reconstruct what happened.
There was a villa and a dog and Grigor. Grigor! That bastard. At least he had the decency to get you away from the scene before he knocked you out and stole the money you sacrificed your foot for. It's gone of course, right? Yes. No Iadian in his right mind would leave a full satchel unstolen. The real loss was those impressive babe-magnet sneakers. But who knows? Maybe if the dog had never bitten you, Grigor would have taken the Nikes too. At least this way you don't have to look like a hapless gypsy hobbling home barefoot. You have proof of your bravery! Bravery? What a coward you've become. And yet yesterday you thought you might actually have continued your schooling. No, there's no chance of that now. You're just a thug now. Not even that. You're a bum with pretensions. That's almost worse than a gypsy
You are just becoming aware of the pain radiating from various points of your body when you feel a curious sensation, like a big cool raindrop landing on your stomach. Reaching down, you pick up the Bear Beer bottle cap that someone has just thrown on you. Another just like it hits you on the thigh. What the
Turning painfully around, you find yourself face to face with a huddled mass of "stray kids" as you call them in Iad, their mouths glowing an eerie shade of gold in the late afternoon light. Their eyes are lit up like bonfires and they laugh unsteadily as they see you stir and moan in pain. One of them points to your shirt. Looking down, you see that they have painted a large black bulls-eye on you in permanent marker. An inventive game for what one has available in an alleyway.
"Sorry, mister," one of them calls out. "We thought you were dead."
"Oh," is all you can manage, rubbing the very tender spot where you fell on your head. You suddenly have an uncontrollable urge to laugh, so you do. The kids join in with you, creating a little cacophonous symphony of happy despair. You notice their plastic bags filled with golden glue bouncing up and down with their laughter. Their intoxicated eyes watch you, fiery yet utterly empty.
"Hey man," the little one says, trying hard to sound tough. He can't be more than ten years old. "You want?" He holds his bag out towards you. Of all of them, he has the most intelligent eyes. He skips his bottle cap away into the gutter.
You drag yourself a few centimeters towards him. Then you stop. Even in your beaten state, you can't quite imagine getting high on glue with a bunch of vagabond kids. You really need to get some medical attention, to get fixed up and then drag your ass home so you can forget about this whole disaster. But the pain is throbbing in your head and through your foot. You're confused. Which way is the hospital, anyway? Looking one way, then the other, you get a dizzy feeling like the street will turn upside-down and fall on your head. To be able to escape
There was a villa and a dog and Grigor. Grigor! That bastard. At least he had the decency to get you away from the scene before he knocked you out and stole the money you sacrificed your foot for. It's gone of course, right? Yes. No Iadian in his right mind would leave a full satchel unstolen. The real loss was those impressive babe-magnet sneakers. But who knows? Maybe if the dog had never bitten you, Grigor would have taken the Nikes too. At least this way you don't have to look like a hapless gypsy hobbling home barefoot. You have proof of your bravery! Bravery? What a coward you've become. And yet yesterday you thought you might actually have continued your schooling. No, there's no chance of that now. You're just a thug now. Not even that. You're a bum with pretensions. That's almost worse than a gypsy
You are just becoming aware of the pain radiating from various points of your body when you feel a curious sensation, like a big cool raindrop landing on your stomach. Reaching down, you pick up the Bear Beer bottle cap that someone has just thrown on you. Another just like it hits you on the thigh. What the
Turning painfully around, you find yourself face to face with a huddled mass of "stray kids" as you call them in Iad, their mouths glowing an eerie shade of gold in the late afternoon light. Their eyes are lit up like bonfires and they laugh unsteadily as they see you stir and moan in pain. One of them points to your shirt. Looking down, you see that they have painted a large black bulls-eye on you in permanent marker. An inventive game for what one has available in an alleyway.
"Sorry, mister," one of them calls out. "We thought you were dead."
"Oh," is all you can manage, rubbing the very tender spot where you fell on your head. You suddenly have an uncontrollable urge to laugh, so you do. The kids join in with you, creating a little cacophonous symphony of happy despair. You notice their plastic bags filled with golden glue bouncing up and down with their laughter. Their intoxicated eyes watch you, fiery yet utterly empty.
"Hey man," the little one says, trying hard to sound tough. He can't be more than ten years old. "You want?" He holds his bag out towards you. Of all of them, he has the most intelligent eyes. He skips his bottle cap away into the gutter.
You drag yourself a few centimeters towards him. Then you stop. Even in your beaten state, you can't quite imagine getting high on glue with a bunch of vagabond kids. You really need to get some medical attention, to get fixed up and then drag your ass home so you can forget about this whole disaster. But the pain is throbbing in your head and through your foot. You're confused. Which way is the hospital, anyway? Looking one way, then the other, you get a dizzy feeling like the street will turn upside-down and fall on your head. To be able to escape