Sticks and stones
Mar. 21st, 2012 03:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rightnutIt wasn't the first time Hesher concluded that he didn't like people very much. In fact, that was a fairly frequent occurrence, since most people didn't treat drifters very good. Though usually he could just think something in the lines of sticks and stones and words - and that the first two could break bones, but not the third - and then be on his way.
But this time it hadn't been so much words as actual sticks and stones. And, from what he could tell, two broken bones.
Fucking upperclass brats, having nothing better to do than to go hobo stomping. Now, Hesher could throw a pretty good punch, but when it was five against one, that didn't matter so much. When it was five against one, you curled up with your hands over your head, trying to protect what you could as you endured the punches and kicks.
It could have been worse, far worse than bruises, scrapes and cuts, than an ankle he couldn't put an ounce of weight on, and a rib that was most likely broken because of how much it hurt to breathe.
He should have tried to make his way to a hospital, but with his deep-seated distrust for any and all forms of authority and... No, he didn't go. He dragged himself back to his van where he curled up to rest and recover. But what little food he had there soon ran out, and it was hard to scrunch up more when he couldn't even walk. Starvation was imminent, and he didn't have weight to spare in the first place, already bordering on malnutrition.
And so, on the evening five days after the attack, dehydrated, nauseous from hunger and pain, Hesher finally swallowed his stubbornness and distrust. With a steel pipe serving as a makeshift cane, he started the slow and torturous hobble and stumble towards the ER.
But this time it hadn't been so much words as actual sticks and stones. And, from what he could tell, two broken bones.
Fucking upperclass brats, having nothing better to do than to go hobo stomping. Now, Hesher could throw a pretty good punch, but when it was five against one, that didn't matter so much. When it was five against one, you curled up with your hands over your head, trying to protect what you could as you endured the punches and kicks.
It could have been worse, far worse than bruises, scrapes and cuts, than an ankle he couldn't put an ounce of weight on, and a rib that was most likely broken because of how much it hurt to breathe.
He should have tried to make his way to a hospital, but with his deep-seated distrust for any and all forms of authority and... No, he didn't go. He dragged himself back to his van where he curled up to rest and recover. But what little food he had there soon ran out, and it was hard to scrunch up more when he couldn't even walk. Starvation was imminent, and he didn't have weight to spare in the first place, already bordering on malnutrition.
And so, on the evening five days after the attack, dehydrated, nauseous from hunger and pain, Hesher finally swallowed his stubbornness and distrust. With a steel pipe serving as a makeshift cane, he started the slow and torturous hobble and stumble towards the ER.
