Errors. (Note the plural.) A sequence of faulty decisions. You cannot say it was by chance. Robert Salvatore regarded his recent debauchery. Exposed himself to a risk, in such unjustified way. He could be dead.
Definitely, he should look up, right away, the festival medical tent. The second time in three days. Perhaps the nurse would remembered him. Cute.
"Hi, remember me? No, I'm not throwing up the shit out of me. It's my knee. It'll tear apart."
The stinging pain made him limp. Why he didn't look for medical care right after Gerson gave him a knee stomp?
Salvatore feels angry, he wanted to blow that motherfucker up. But all he managed to do was to escape.
If he didn't checked his knee before, there's no way he would do it now. He keeps running, desperate. Salvatore makes his way through the crowd.
Dodging people as he can. Bumping on, stumbling and stepping on someone. The crowd thickening as he closes his distance to the main stage. Pulsing lights ahead. At the background display, in black & white, Eddie Vedder shouting "do the evolution, baby."
Salvatore has not only exposed himself. He hurt the person who he'd loved the most. Not once, or twice. A damage beyond repair.
He runs at frantic pace. The sound of a distorted guitar breaks into the night of Chicago.
YOU ARE READING
Rocking Fiction
General FictionThe only important thing for Robert Salvatore is writing. Rock criticism. To an audience of eleven followers - ten, excluding himself. Moreover, he takes a parked routine. Feels bored at work, but is content with low income. Pushes a discouraged rel...
