Where The Flower Goes To Die

[Laurels]

Ambrose gasped as he jolted awake. The world was suddenly viewed with only one eye. He touched the other eye and felt something warm and sticky. It was blood. He moved his hand up and found the cause of the injury. The last gunshot the crazy minority bitch fired had only grazed his forehead. The shock must have been enough to make him pass out.

He let out another gasp and tasted something coppery in his mouth. He touched his nose. It felt broken, and blood had seeped down into his mouth. He spat a bit and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

He sat up, feeling the similar stinging sensation from his shoulder. He had no idea how long he had been out, but the girl was gone. She left his knife and bag behind, along with what looked like a pool of vomit nearby. He grimaced and looked away.

"Crazy...fucking crazy bitch..." he muttered to himself.

He stumbled to his feet, grabbing his knife and bag. He slung the bag over his good shoulder and put the knife in his coat pocket. He had to get out of here. He was still in the open bleeding from his head, nose, and shoulder. It didn't take a minority in tutoring to know that he was royally screwed if he didn't get out of here.

Ambrose stumbled away from the barricade. He had to get inside and dress the wounds quickly. He couldn't die so quickly in this game, and he certainly couldn't die from something like an infection. He had to prove he was better than that.

He also had to prove he was better than being killed by some arrogant minority chick who felt empowered just because she had a gun. If he saw that girl again, he'd have to remind her exactly where her place was.

But for now, he hurried away from the barricade on wobbly legs. This embarrassing display couldn't get worse, so he had to hurry away before anyone saw him in such a fatigued state.

((Ambrose Lexington continued elsewhere))