FicWad

Patrick winced as he lay on the ground looking up at the shoe that was colliding with his ribs. He circled is hands round his head just in time to avoid a power-housed kick to his face. He instantly regreted the soft moan of pain he allowed to escape from his lips as he felt his wrist shatter, but could not help letting go of the sound. He rolled onto his back, clutching his wrist, letting silent tears form in his eyes. He watched his breath rise into the winter's night and felt the warm stream of blood trickle from his forehead. His mind deafened, but his ears could faintly make out the sounds of laughter looming above his crimpled and aching body. As the moment passed on, he could already feel the bruises forming on his skin and the stinging sensation of cuts and lacerations marking his obvious defeat. Patrick opened his eyes to a mere squint and peered through the broken glass of his spectacles just in time to watch the spit of his departing cousin land on his cheek. He shifted himself to his side and used his good hand to push himself from the ground, unsteadily finding his balance. He cradled his left arm with his right and winced again as the pain came streaming down his spine. He turned back towards the house and saw the deepend area of red snow that he rose from. Patrick swallowed hard and sighed deep, and began to shuffle slowly towards the back door and up to his make-shift bedroom.

Patrick leaned agaisnt the door frame that seperated the staircase to the stand up attic he now called home. He uneasily kicked off his shoes and removed his bloodstained t-shirt and jeans. He stood in front of his suitcase and shifted through the clothes careful not to stain anything with the droplets of blood forming at the tip of his nose and chin. He slipped on a clean shirt and a pair of comfortable cotten shorts. He stumbled across the long wooden planks to the other end of the attic and stared into the tiny mirror that hung on the wall, removing his glasses with his good hand. He took an old rag from the pile of unused clothes ready for the consignment shop and began to clean up his face, wiping away a sloppy mix of blood and tears. When he fashioned that his face somewhat resembled his old reflection, he began to look around the room for something that would hopefully stablize his broken wrist. He gaze brightened when he spotted his drumsticks, grabbing them from his opened backpack that lay on the floor. He placed a drumstick on either side of his arm, extending from his elbow to the tips of his fingers and secured the sticks to his limb using a roll of tape he discovered in a box lying next to the window. After testing the mobility of his second-hand splint, Patrick threaded his father's old scarf between his elbow and his chest, tightly holding his left arm across the middle section of his body. He clumsily fastened either end of the wide scarf behind his neck and stretched the area beneath his arm wide enough to hold it without difficulty. He smiled slightly and with much pain at the sling he created, and sighed again, scratching the back of his head and shifting the knotted scarf so that it created as little irritation as possible to the back of his neck while he would sleep. He moved slowly back over to the suitcase at the end of his cot and reached inside for a bottle of aspirin, praying that he remembered to pack some with him. He found himself lucky, and popped two tablets into his mouth, doing his best to dry swallow them with as little discomfort as possible. He drew back the woolen blanket and crawled beneath the stale smelling sheets that lay on top of his bed. Patrick closed his eyes, ignoring his aunt's request to join her family for dinner, and slowly drifted into a world of nightmares all too closely resembling the world he wish he could escape from.