Anthony winced as a trickle of blood traced a path down his leg, mingling with the gritty dirt and stinging the raw skin. A dull ache pulsed through his limbs; his arms and legs felt numb and heavy, as if detached from his body. Blinking away the blur of pain, he focused on the towering trees lining the sidewalk, their branches intertwining overhead like skeletal fingers, casting long shadows against the rough brick wall beside him.
The harsh glare of the streetlamps illuminated the scene, casting an eerie yellow glow on the pavement. The faint hum of electricity buzzed through the cables snaking along the streetlamps, a constant rhythm in the otherwise silent night. A wave of gnawing hunger gripped his stomach, sharp and insistent. Desperate for sustenance, he tore at his shirt with his teeth, the fabric ripping with a harsh rasp.
With trembling hands, he crawled toward a large, jagged rock, its surface cold against his skin. He used its sharp edge to tear thin strips from his shirt, creating makeshift bandages for his bleeding wounds. Whimpering, he gasped for breath, his chest tight with pain. Scanning the street for the glow of headlights, he sought any sign of life in the deserted thoroughfare.
Crawling deeper into the shadows of a cluster of trees, he felt the cool, damp earth beneath him, the smell of decaying leaves filling his nostrils. Cars whizzed past, their drivers oblivious to the injured man hidden just feet away. He tightened the makeshift tourniquet around his thigh, the pressure a dull ache necessary to stem the flow of blood. He spat onto his wounded hands, the warm saliva a futile attempt to cleanse the grime, then stumbled to his knees, crawling further into the undergrowth.
A thin trickle of blood ran down his forehead, barely noticeable against the dirt. Realizing he had exhausted his supply of shirt strips, he broke off small branches from the surrounding trees, using them to cover his wounds in a desperate attempt to protect the raw flesh.
The bullet wound in his thigh burned like fire. He knew he looked like hell, battered and bruised, clothes torn and stained with blood. Each movement crunched dried leaves beneath him as he crawled toward the distant glow of more streetlights and the sound of passing cars. Squinting, he focused on a sign illuminated by the streetlight: "Leaving Falcone Avenue."
A weak chuckle escaped him, followed by a cough that sprayed blood into the air. The metallic taste mixed with the grit of the street filled his mouth. He looked down at his left hand, droplets of blood welling from a fresh cut. Without hesitation, he licked the blood from his hand, the salty taste a grim reminder of his precarious situation.
He clung to life by a thread, aware that time was running out. He needed food, water, and shelter while remaining hidden from the prying eyes of passing vehicles. Family SUVs drove by, filled with laughing children and parents, their faces illuminated by interior lights. The sight brought a pang of longing, a sharp reminder of the happiness and normalcy he had lost. Hidden among the swaying trees, he knew he wouldn't experience that kind of familial love and security for a long time. He had made his choices, and now he had to pay the price.