Status: this is going through a huge rewrite
Masters of War
003
I've never seen anyone shift this badly before. The man is shaped in broken angles with mange ridden fur, making his body appear confused with itself. Chunks of his own meat are caught in his claws explaining the mess I've stepped in earlier. The amount of blood washing away in the rain is border lining on the ridiculous. Crimson creeks trail around my converse only to disappear in the mud.
Fighting my instinct to high-tail it back to the safety of the station, I take my faded leather coat from my shoulders and drape it over the young man. Gingerly, I snake my arms underneath him, trying my best to settle the bile threatening to spew from my mouth. This is literally the most disgusting thing I have ever had to do. I lift him up with his skin making a sickening pull to the pavement below him. Tendrils of inky hair wash away from his forehead, revealing closed eyelids and a messy set of scratches. Grunting, I take the first first steps of this seemingly mile long two hundred feet back to the gas station.
Instead of bringing this mess of a man inside with me, I hang a left and head towards my vehicle. The 1981 Chevy, practically rusting in on itself from the fenders to the roof will have to suffice as a shelter until my shift is over. The door opens with a groan and I set the poor guy on the blanket I have spread to protect the cab's seats, cursing to myself when I notice the blood that's already soaking into the soft material.
The truck door makes yet another embarrassing noise as I close it, chills racking through my body with the absence of my leather jacket. I peer into the window to glance at the stranger hoping to God that Cian doesn't kill me when I bring my new found puppy home.
When I finally make it back inside that quiet station, I look to the clock on the wall and notice my endeavors only killed an hour off of my shift. With dread slowly sinking into my bones, I walk back to my post behind the register and pick up my paper where I've left off. Worry sits in my gut and creases my brow for the guy in my pick-up. Although I know full well of his species and how fast he should be able to heal, I can't shake my anxiety for him.
After about ten minutes, the nouns start to blur together on the newsprint crinkling in my dewy hands. Deciding that enough was enough, I shoot a quick text to my coworker asking if they could come in as soon as they could instead of their scheduled start at four. The buzzing from the overhead fluorescent pricks at my ears again as I wait for a reply. Each minute passes by slower than the next
"Fuck it," I grunt and hop out the back door for yet another smoke break. I take a look inside the cab of my truck again, just to check in on the guy, and notice that his bleeding has stopped but his breathing is returning back to a average pace. A set of headlights show themselves about a block down the road, approaching lazily to the entrance of the parking lot. The car pulls in and the driver parks her silver piece of shit on the left side of my own beater and climbs out.
"There better be a good fucking excuse as to why I'm covering for your sorry ass" The blonde, crazy sophomore college student, better described as Melanie, spits out as she slams her car door. Her hair is pulled back into a messy bun and she's wearing her college sweatshirt over a pair of holey, loose fitting jeans.
"Jesus Christ, woman! You look like a mother." I retort.
"Haha," She deadpans "Very funny, Boone. Your humor never ceases to amaze me, but you still haven't answered my question."
"I found a pup, Mel." I point to the passed out creature in the seat of my truck. She walks over to the passenger side and cups her hands to the glass to get a better look. Her body goes rigid as she turns her head around to face me.
"What the fuck did you do, Cujo." She seethes, her brown eyes in tiny slits as she glares me down.
"What are you talking about, woman. I found him that way, worse actually. I need to get him to a safe place." I defend. She just stands there facing me, in the rain, a stern expression written on her face. We're both entirely soaked by now, her sweatshirt dark from the moisture and if she were wearing any make-up, it would've streaked down her face.
"Fine, but you owe me for this." She turns and stomps angrily into the station. I watch, shamelessly I might add, to how much her hips sway when she's irritated before climbing into my truck and driving towards what is now home.
Fighting my instinct to high-tail it back to the safety of the station, I take my faded leather coat from my shoulders and drape it over the young man. Gingerly, I snake my arms underneath him, trying my best to settle the bile threatening to spew from my mouth. This is literally the most disgusting thing I have ever had to do. I lift him up with his skin making a sickening pull to the pavement below him. Tendrils of inky hair wash away from his forehead, revealing closed eyelids and a messy set of scratches. Grunting, I take the first first steps of this seemingly mile long two hundred feet back to the gas station.
Instead of bringing this mess of a man inside with me, I hang a left and head towards my vehicle. The 1981 Chevy, practically rusting in on itself from the fenders to the roof will have to suffice as a shelter until my shift is over. The door opens with a groan and I set the poor guy on the blanket I have spread to protect the cab's seats, cursing to myself when I notice the blood that's already soaking into the soft material.
The truck door makes yet another embarrassing noise as I close it, chills racking through my body with the absence of my leather jacket. I peer into the window to glance at the stranger hoping to God that Cian doesn't kill me when I bring my new found puppy home.
When I finally make it back inside that quiet station, I look to the clock on the wall and notice my endeavors only killed an hour off of my shift. With dread slowly sinking into my bones, I walk back to my post behind the register and pick up my paper where I've left off. Worry sits in my gut and creases my brow for the guy in my pick-up. Although I know full well of his species and how fast he should be able to heal, I can't shake my anxiety for him.
After about ten minutes, the nouns start to blur together on the newsprint crinkling in my dewy hands. Deciding that enough was enough, I shoot a quick text to my coworker asking if they could come in as soon as they could instead of their scheduled start at four. The buzzing from the overhead fluorescent pricks at my ears again as I wait for a reply. Each minute passes by slower than the next
"Fuck it," I grunt and hop out the back door for yet another smoke break. I take a look inside the cab of my truck again, just to check in on the guy, and notice that his bleeding has stopped but his breathing is returning back to a average pace. A set of headlights show themselves about a block down the road, approaching lazily to the entrance of the parking lot. The car pulls in and the driver parks her silver piece of shit on the left side of my own beater and climbs out.
"There better be a good fucking excuse as to why I'm covering for your sorry ass" The blonde, crazy sophomore college student, better described as Melanie, spits out as she slams her car door. Her hair is pulled back into a messy bun and she's wearing her college sweatshirt over a pair of holey, loose fitting jeans.
"Jesus Christ, woman! You look like a mother." I retort.
"Haha," She deadpans "Very funny, Boone. Your humor never ceases to amaze me, but you still haven't answered my question."
"I found a pup, Mel." I point to the passed out creature in the seat of my truck. She walks over to the passenger side and cups her hands to the glass to get a better look. Her body goes rigid as she turns her head around to face me.
"What the fuck did you do, Cujo." She seethes, her brown eyes in tiny slits as she glares me down.
"What are you talking about, woman. I found him that way, worse actually. I need to get him to a safe place." I defend. She just stands there facing me, in the rain, a stern expression written on her face. We're both entirely soaked by now, her sweatshirt dark from the moisture and if she were wearing any make-up, it would've streaked down her face.
"Fine, but you owe me for this." She turns and stomps angrily into the station. I watch, shamelessly I might add, to how much her hips sway when she's irritated before climbing into my truck and driving towards what is now home.
♠ ♠ ♠
soooooo... yup, i updated. I'm still not sure if I want to continue this story in Boone's perspective or make it Logan's. Comment and give some input, please :)