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He’s on the ground. Bleeding. Bleeding? He’s definitely bleeding, he can taste it. Ringing in his ears. Pain .
He doesn’t think he blacked out, but there’s gaps in what he remembers. He doesn’t remember hitting the ground, for one. Does that mean he blacked out? The guys are gone. He never got a good look at their faces. Everything starts to fill back in.
He had been drinking. A lot. Florence dumped him for good, so he was trying to forget about her. He was being an idiot who thought that nothing bad could happen to him and cut through an alleyway. Three guys behind him- three guys who he knew were up to no good but he still hadn’t bothered to run or shout. That’s where it cuts off for him. He can put two and two together, he knows they beat the shit out of him, but he doesn’t remember it happening.
There’s a knife in his stomach. Well that’s a dumb fucking mistake. One of those guys must have his fingerprints all over it, and he just left it. That, and if he had taken it, Freddie would be dying faster.
Dying. He’s dying. That’s it. It’s not a sealed deal yet, but it might as well be. He’s deep in the alley, a couple turns in. Is that a dead end? So maybe he never had a chance. If he’d run he would have run right into a brick wall. Huh. Well, no one’s finding him now. Even if he could move, walk, hell, even crawl to the street for someone to find him, it doesn’t change the fact that he has a knife in him, a few other stab wounds, and probably at least ten broken bones. So he’s dying for real.
He should have guessed this would be how it happened. It’s what he deserves. A stupid, wasted tourist wandering where he shouldn’t and dying alone. Fucking pathetic. That’s what he is.
He wonders how long it will take for someone to find him. Will anyone come looking for him? How long before him having a night out alone starts to look like he’s missing? Who cares? Who would come looking? Florence would have started looking by now. She must not know that he’s gone, and if she does know, then why would she care? She’s off with her new man now. Maybe Walter would start to worry, but he doubts it. The match is still on pause while Sergievsky gets his shit figured out. As long as Freddie’s not actively playing, Walter doesn’t give a shit where Freddie is or what he does, as long as what he’s doing doesn’t screw with his media presence. So no one’s coming for him. Not until the match is set to resume in a couple of days, and by then he’ll have been here for all of that time. He’ll be a gross corpse.
Gross. His suit, goddammit his suit. It’s all bloody. His white suit, which is all red now and somehow that’s more disgusting to him then the fact that the reason it’s red is that it’s soaked in his blood. He can’t look away from it, trying to move his neck yields no results.
He can’t move and his vision is blurring now. He wishes he could just pull the knife out so he would die faster, but even if he could move he wouldn’t have the strength to pull it out.
The thought of the knife makes him realize it doesn’t hurt. When did it stop hurting? He’s tired. Good. Time to go.
There’s no grim reaper, no hand to grab onto to be taken away. No comfort. Just the blood, and the ringing in his ears, and the pain that was there but isn’t anymore. He never believed in an afterlife, but he feels a little ripped off. He’d have preferred a kind of spectacle, even one only he could see. Even a figment of his imagination, he’d never know if it wasn’t real. He’d be dead. He’s tired.
He can’t see anything. He hit his head- they hit his head, bashed it in so hard he’d be fucked up forever if he lived. It’s a blessing. He’s tired. He’s never liked sleeping alone. Maybe he’d be better at dying if someone was here with him.
He shuts his eyes. If there’s a hand waiting to reach out and take him away, he won’t look at it. He’s tired.
And he goes to sleep.