Contemplation

A big breath of air shivered inside her lungs. Only a few people wake up and go "let's survive today". With her exhale, she knew that the dimmest lights were on her, and maybe she needed to make them brighter. Nobody cares if you're running from home sometimes. Some do. You wonder why you're doing this. But you have a body that can run. You have achievements. Do something you never did before, make a goal you think you can't make. If you set a goal in the right time, then the right things will come to you; and that's all Isabelle thought. She didn't contemplate the boy and Mr. Levon. She only thought about the long streak of running she did. Now her shins felt like busted up- well... nothings. As if something great had blessed him, when Isabelle opened her eyes a young, olive skinned boy's brown eyes were peering so close to her that she thought she might be hunted down. 

"H...i?" She asks, her voice instantly dropping down after the second letter. The boy repulsed back, blinking a bit faster. Then the boy leaned forward again, the glass- no, wooden floor of some building not bothering him.

"Ma'am, what happened to you?" The boy asks, tilting his head, biting his lower lip in utter confusion. Isabelle looked down, and in sheer horror she saw the towel, which was dry and caked with dried blood, against her stomach, but not held there. The tilt she was at against the wall was to keep it there- but god, it was the worst thing. Her head rumbled like a thunderstorm, and at any given moment she felt like she might just shed a tear and slam dunk the kid down a 20 foot alleyway the next chance she gets. 

"I'd rather not say." Isabelle says, trying to sigh but instead coughing to not-her-hearts-content and ended up rubbing her throat with one weak hand that was defined by thin, blue veins running through every once in a while. The boy studied her for a moment before laughing and slapping his knee.

"You, a girl, who has clearly been through a crime, means to tell me she doesn't want to say what happened? You are away from the person who did this, you know? Mr. Levon shot the driver dead a couple hours-.." The boy kept rambling on and on, at some point Isabelle's ears felt like fuzz that was hushing it. So that guy was named Mr. Levon, and had a gun on him, and they think the driver did this? If she's not in this city, they just killed Isabelle's chance. 

"James Birch Maywise, what are you doing criticizing a woman?" A low voice grumbles from the left. Mr. Levon. The boy- James, looked like the gates of heaven just slammed shut in his face. James shifted on his knees.

"I'm truly sorry Mr. Levon." James says, widening his eyes in a puppy dog look. The wind blowing against the thin walls of this.. warehouse filled the awkward silence for a minute.

"Get out James." Mr. Levon instructs, stomping into the room Isabelle was in, watching James scamper out. The boots of the man thudded on the ground even when he turned on his heel. His gaze finally landed on Isabelle, and she turned her head away. Mr. Levon was unbelievably handsome in her definition. Not-too broad shouldered, a good but not too sharp jawline, hair that could curl and tickle any woman's skin no matter the fairness or smoothness of her skin, and hands that were strong with veins running through them. Isabelle always found it funny how veins on men were better than veins on a woman, but she fell into it. His skin was the same as the boy's, and his eyes were a deep green. It seemed like he could be a step-sibling of the boy. 

Isabelle felt like an earthworm, a bloody one, under his gaze. After what looked like utter disgust on his face, whether it was for her or the "person who did this" to her, Mr. Levon walked forward and grabbed her hand, pulling her up, not giving even her muscles willpower. Isabelle instantly stumbled, and her shins stung. The towel that had been on her stomach fell off, revealing the horrible result of a would. A firm push of his hand made Isabelle slightly arch her back when she realized he was trying to check her stomach wound. Isabelle tried to not focus on the Greek God of a man that was leaning down and running a finger over the wounds. His fingertips on the edges of dried blood felt like fire on lava, the farthest thing from ecstasy. A rough pull even closer to him made her knees feel weak. 

"You have no broken bones.." Mr. Levon's voice informs, his eyes flicking up to dally with Isabelle's. Isabelle tried to avert her gaze. Oh, he was just checking my bones when he prodded my shins and legs. Good to know.

"That's good news.." Isabelle says, even though she knew she hadn't hurt herself terribly in the cage, the landing from the 2nd floor felt like high hell.

"Yeah, it is. That means we can get you out of here soon." Mr. Levon says, sighing, letting go and watching Isabelle stumble back and clatter to the cold wooden ground.

Isabelle kept silent, knowing it would help to not make some snarky remark. She watched as the man walked out and shut the door behind him.

Silence.

Closing her eyes, then opening them, then closing them, then opening them, she realized she felt a bit better. No bones were broken.. she didn't feel the need to throw up... Isabelle starts to stand up, one hand clasping the wall to sturdy herself as she does so. The texture felt unnatural under her fingers, but it kept her up, so it was damn fine to her. She walks forward slowly, taking one step, then another.. and one more.

Isabelle's jaw drops. Low and behold, in front of her was a polished switchblade. She clears her throat, even though no one was there, and turns away, deciding to not mess any chance of survival up. Easy survival, that is. She knew she would survive, but she wanted it to be easy. Being lazy when she hadn't had a good day was nice. It was a break. Stepping around and regaining her sense of balance for a while, she eventually gets tired and blinked wearily at the towel that absorbed her blood that laid on the floor a couple feet away.

I must be talented at the skill.

With a scoff at the thought, she walks to a window that was covering the outside with weak blinds and peers out through the cracks, looking at the barren wasteland of metal and old carriages through the dirty window. Then, the door creaks some more.

"Back up from that poor excuse of a window. I brought you some food." The voice says. It must be Mr. Levon. Turning on her heel, she makes the bold move of a glare. She was just trying to get to the city and was now in this mess. It was bold in her shoes, at least.