Lady Luck

3

        Climbing two flights of stairs when one person has a limp and can't stand on his own takes even longer than you'd think—and I spent every minute questioning what the hell I was doing.

It was kind of ridiculous how long it took. In this case, he had TWO bad legs rather than just one, so either way he'd be in pain. We had to pause after every single step to make sure he didn't place too much stress on the leg with the knife or his bad ankle. By the time we finally reached the top, my shoulder was sore from the combined efforts of lifting all that debris and having a heavy guy leaning on it. Thankfully, there wasn't much left to go, and I quickly led him to the end of the hall, using the arm that DIDN'T have a blood-stained killer clinging to it to open the door.

At some point in the past, this large room had probably been a conference room or some big-name executive's office or something. It just reeked of business and high class, even with the wood paneling now chipped and the carpet stained. Nowadays, though, it had turned into my nest. I led the hooded man to the faded green couch on the side of the room—the only actual piece of furniture left in the room. It was a bit old and worn, but not too much, so it was pretty comfortable. At that moment, that couch looked more inviting than anything else to my sore and tired body, but I knew I couldn't relax yet. After all, this guy was still losing a LOT of blood.

Casting it a wistful glance, I turned and went to the corner of the room where I kept my supplies. Brushing aside the bags with my clothes and cooking supplies, I found the first aid kit and turned only to see the guy had rolled up the left leg of his jeans and removed his shoes, his left arm withdrawn into his sweatshirt. Given the way he gripped the now-empty sleeve, it was pretty clear he planned to tear it off.

"Think fast," I called, tossing a balled-up scarf at him. He released the sleeve to catch it, and immediately went to work wrapping it around the spot the knife was embedded. Not exactly a permanent solution, but it would have to do for the moment. While he took care of that I went over and knelt in front of him with the first aid kit, scrutinizing his ankle carefully.

More blood had poured from the cut while we were climbing the stairs, so I quickly wiped it clean before starting. With all the blood gone, it was clear just how bad his ankle really was. The swollen skin had turned purple, and the cut wasn't all that pretty either. Trying my best not to freak out at the sight, I went to work while the man watched me without a word. But while it looked pretty bad, surprisingly it didn't take too long to fix. Soon enough I was strapping a black ankle brace around the bandages.

With his ankle no longer painful to look at, I instead turned my gaze to my own body. Great, now I'm covered in plaster, dust, and blood. This is going to be a pain to clean... I sighed at the thought, but then froze. Here I was, tending the injured ankle of a guy I saw kill someone less than an hour ago, and my first thought was how hard it would be to clean my clothes. Not about the danger he posed, not about how ridiculous it was for me to help a killer, but instead I was focused on how hard it would be to clean my clothes and get a shower when I had no access to running water and no money.

As the implications of my thoughts settled in, I almost wanted to laugh. This just goes to show how messed up my priorities have become. Shaking my head, I pressed a hand to my head as I backed off, taking a moment to collect myself before finally speaking.

"Okay, your ankle's good. But you still have a ton of smaller cuts all over your body, plus that giant gash in your leg from the knife, and there's no way I'm helping you with anything under your clothes. Based on how you handled your leg, I'm pretty sure you know what you're doing, so I'm just going to leave the first aid kit here and go outside. Call me only if you need me, but if it's for something below the pants line, just resign yourself to death. Got it?"

He seemed to accept my conditions even before I finished, as he was already examining the kit's contents. Taking that to mean he'd be fine, I stepped out and closed the door, leaning against it with a sigh. Outside, there was a trail of crimson spots on the ground, a clear and bloody trail leading from the stairwell to the room. Pressing a hand to my head, my lips tugged into a rueful smirk as I finally gave a small, bitter laugh.

"Seriously... I'm totally and completely insane..."

Here I was, in an abandoned building in the middle of no where, helping a masked guy after I saw him kill another person. I know my luck is pretty extraordinary, but even I knew I was pushing it this time. There was literally no logic to this, it just seemed like a giant death wish. I mean, seriously, this guy literally killed another person. As I thought back to the drug dealer's body I suddenly gave a jolt, my eyes widening.

The druggie.

That's right... No matter how high or out of it he was, there was no way he wouldn't hear the scream or the floor collapse below. Frowning, I started making my way down the hall towards the direction I'd heard his footsteps disappear. As I walked along the hall, I peered into the open doors one by one, and as I looked into one I saw a hand on the ground. I quickly grabbed the handle and yanked the door shut, but not before seeing the rest of the body.

Yep. Dead.

A chill ran down my spine as I stepped back and hugged myself, the brief glimpse of the druggie's face burned in my mind, mouth lined with a foamy red substance and eyes rolled in the back of his head. Overdosing is NOT a pretty way to go. When the drug dealer's own glassy-eyed face also flashed through my mind, I couldn't help thinking that he actually might have gotten the better end of the deal in this case...

Shaking my head as if to clear the corpses from my memory, I slowly made my way back down the hall, head bowed and staring at the ground. Once I reached the door I slumped against the wall and for a while I just stayed like that, lost in my thoughts. The more I thought, though, the less I wanted to think—at least, not about that. It suddenly occurred to me that the hooded guy wasn't exactly talkative, so I decided to knock on the door and call out.

"You done yet?" He responded with a grunt that seemed affirmative, so I cautiously opened the door. At the moment he was lying on his back with his bad ankle propped on the couch's arm, his head turned to face the door. Sure enough, he was now fully dressed, glimpses of bloodied tan gauze visible in the larger tears in his sweatshirt and pants. I ignored his stare and went straight to the corner with my belongings, picking up all the stray objects on the floor and stuffing them into the appropriate bags.

"You're causing me a lot of trouble," I grumbled. He didn't respond, so I continued. "Because you killed that drug dealer, his friends will probably come looking for them. And they'll find this room in no time if they follow that 'crimson brick road' you left for them."

"Then move the body." I paused, more surprised to hear him talk than by what he said. Short and blunt, matter-of-fact. It was pretty much what I'd expected him to say, though again, I hadn't really expected him to actually say ANYTHING. After a moment, I glanced back at him over my shoulder.

"I just lifted a ton of debris off you—and given how sore I am, 'ton' might actually be literal here—and my clothes are already covered with blood, plaster and dust. There's no way I'm moving a freaking corpse." With that I went back to packing, but apparently he had another brilliant suggestion.

"Get new clothes, then." That particular statement made me freeze, my grip tightening on the bottle I'd just picked up. Taking a deep breath, I dropped the bottle and rose, stalking across the room so I was right in front of him. He actually leaned back a little bit, and in response I just leaned forward.

"I have no money. I can't afford it." I emphasized each word slowly and carefully, keeping my gaze locked with the red eyes of his mask. After a moment passed without him replying I spun around and went back to my corner to continue packing. Neither of us spoke now, the only sound the crinkling of plastic as I rearranged my belongings in the bags. Eventually, though, he broke the silence, but this time it wasn't to make a suggestion.

"...What's your story?" His question made me pause for a moment, surprised, but then I slowly resumed putting stuff away.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I grumbled, frowning to myself.

"You said it yourself—normal people would've walked out and left me there, but you came back. But it's more than that. Your behavior's all wrong. This whole time you've been making all kinds of witty retorts and acting sarcastic. And as far as I can tell, you don't have the muscle or skill to back you up if things go south. In short, you're doing nothing but taking risks—bad ones. It's as if you're acting without any thought about the long term consequences of your actions—you're going against survival instinct itself."

"Your point?" I interrupted, still not looking back at him. He remained silent for a moment before continuing, a sort of certainty now audible in his tone.

"...There's no way you were born with that kind of mindset. Something happened to you. And I want to know what." This time I was the one who didn't respond right away, just packing my stuff silently, deep in thought.

"...And why should I tell you anything?"

"Because something tells me there's no one else who'll ask."

At this point I just sat in silence, his words echoing through my mind. There's no one else who'll ask. Mulling it over, eventually I found myself releasing a small sigh and putting the bags down, but didn't turn to face him yet.

"...Do you remember the first time you went to a bank?" Even with his mask I could sense his surprise at my question, and heard him shift a bit.

"...Not really," he muttered. "But why...?" I glanced at him over my shoulder.

"The first time I went to a bank, it got robbed."