A Reminder that this month’s mini writing competition prompt is ‘The Good Samaritan’ and all entries are welcome – either flash fiction of 500 words or under or poetry. Entries should be posted on the designated June Mini Monthly Writing Competition page of the website.
Here is my attempt 🙂
I know I shouldn’t be here. Everyone has heard the stories about this part of town. But I don’t care. Truth is, it’s hard to feel anything after what happened to Ethan.
I picture Ethan lying in intensive care hooked up to all those wires but I chase the image away as quickly as it arrived and continue on. I have to see for myself where it happened.
The street is not well lit and what few lights there are have been vandalised so I have to take my bearings from the dirty orange glow seeping under the door of ‘The Hounds of Hell’. Not quite your friendly neighbourhood pub and certainly not a place that a lone 30 something female should be anywhere near.
Despite my current frame of mind I catch my breath. I may be numb to my emotions, but I am not blind and know I should come back during the day. Still, I’m here now.
In the pub it may be World War III, but out here it is quiet, still. Nobody exists apart from me. I feel suddenly weary and lean back against the wall. Letting my eyes close I massage my temples.
Something brushes against my shin and I jerk to attention. It’s nothing, just a stray cat. I settle back waiting for it to get bored and leave. It doesn’t. If anything it tries harder to get my attention, then eventually wanders off into the alley. Even I’m not reckless enough to follow it down that yawning black hole and, with a sigh, I prepare to move on.
The cat’s back with pleading eyes. Why do we do that? Apply human emotions and attributes to animals? But then I hear it. A low murmur. I am not alone. I gingerly peer around the corner and can dimly make out the shape of a dumpster surrounded by a pile of rubbish. I jump as part of that rubbish comes to life and rolls over with a groan.
With a final glance around I start towards the figure until I’m standing over it and can make out a steady drip, drip, pooling into a puddle under its head. Taking out my phone I use the light from the screen to assess the situation. His eyes are half shuttered and barely register my presence. How long has he been here bleeding slowly into the night?
Crouching, I gently shake him and see his consciousness struggle through a fog until his eyes find mine.
“If I help you can you stand up?” I ask.
He groans again. “Don’t get involved. They may come back. I’m not worth it.”
“You need help.” I reply.
“It’s not safe for you here,” he mumbles and I sense him fading. Suddenly it’s not a random stranger lying there anymore, but Ethan. My Ethan. Somehow I hook his right arm around my neck and heave him upright.
A pair of green eyes watch our tortuously slow progress back out of the alley.