Torment || l.s.

7. Cripple

Louis' POV

Whoever said that hell's uncomfortable as fuck should run for their money because I feel like I'm on a cloud. A gravel and cement-induced cloud. It's as comfortable as laying on a sack of rocks, but it's better than being inside the sack of rocks. Because if I'm dying, there's a bigger possibility of me winning the Nobel Prize than me entering heaven. But I'm obviously not because I can feel every fucking burn on my body, and I can smell the tang of dried blood on my nose. 

And I can hear someone panicking nearby, "Fuck!" 

I can feel him move closer, hovering above me as a hand lightly slaps my cheek, "Fuck! Mate? Mate!" I'm not dead, just incapacitated with injuries that hurt too much when I move. So can he please stop jostling my body? I might break a rib in this position. But my eyelids are still too heavy, and my throat feels like sandpaper. Even the streetlight above me hurts my eyes despite them being closed. 

"Fuck, I'm going to lose my job," he mutters to himself. I don't know if I should be grateful that it's Josh, the security guard, or be wary because it's Josh, the security guard. Fuck, I need to let him know that I'm awake in case he calls the medics. 

Like that's fucking easy. 

 I try to move my arm, wincing when the seared skin stretches and I feel blood trickle out the newly opened wound. One arm, and another, until I'm sitting upright. It's not a walk in the park, but I manage to clear my throat, biting back the pain when it feels like rubbing sandpaper against each other. I let out a groan as I try to open my right eye, hissing when the muscle movement affects the wound on my other eye. Fuck, this going to be fun to heal. I can't wait. 

"Don't," Josh says abruptly. There's two of him in front of me and I squint until my eye starts to focus. One Josh is bad enough, two is just unnecessary. Because that's just too much kindness and panic for me to handle. "That's it mate, I'm calling 112." 

"No..." Fuck, no. Getting jailed is not part of my bucket list, despite my questionable medical and social history and ability to be in situations like this. 

 "Fuck! This is the 4th time!" He stands up, pacing around as he furiously runs his fingers through his hair. It's the fourth time, on the same alley, under the same lamppost, with the same security guard. I must have the best luck given I've not yet died. It probably means I have more days to smoke weed and do shit with my life. 

I see him knee beside me, moving to touch my shoulder, and I flinch back, looking at his hand frozen in midair. "Don't touch me." I don't need his help. I can do this on my own. 

He sighs raising an eyebrow, "Who's going to help you up?"

I return the raised eyebrow, speaking slowly, "I'm capable of helping myself." Besides, it's not even an amputated arm, or blow to the skull, they're three cigarette burns, and several cuts and bruises. I won't die. Why is he acting like I'll die? I'm injured, not dying. 

He scoffs, rolling his eyes, "Really? You're capable? Spare me the bullshit." He takes out his radio, and I flick my head to the side in annoyance. He's definitely not a team worker. The pebbles are digging up my ass, the burns sting like hell and I can't properly see through one eye. It's like I won the lottery for minor injuries. I could cry from my great luck "You know what's bullshit? Your source of herb if you won't shut the fuck up." 

I try to fold my legs for a bit of leverage, but I end up shaking as the muscles try to get used to moving again. I can't stand without using my hands, so I reach out my hand, gritting my teeth at the pain. I clutch at the cold steel of the streetlamp, using it as a crutch to raise myself up. I see Josh move closer, only offering a hand to move my less injured arm over his shoulder.