Rebel Red Carnation {Kiribaku}

VII

No matter how long I've lived in the slums and how much my stomach hurts when I haven't eaten in days, how sore my throat gets when there's little clean water to drink, how much my head pounds when the ringing in my ears becomes too much or how much that ringing itself hurts, I swear I've never been in this much agony before. My entire back feels as though it's been engulfed in flames, and it may as well have been for how much it hurts. I can hardly walk, but now that they've thrown me out on the street, muttering some warning about being killed if I ever show my face again, I have no choice.

I'm simultaneously hot and cold. Blood is still dripping down my back, soaking into my pants, circling into small puddles at my feet as I stagger upright. Even the tiniest of moves sends another wave of absolute torture through my body. Only one other injury from my past can rival this kind of pain.

I'm going to bleed to death, there's no doubt about it. Their whip was relentless, and even though the one dealing the damage had been ordered to stop after ten, he'd been having way too much fun with it, judging by his manic laughter. To top it all off, my wrists are welling blood, too, where the handcuffs had been digging into them as they whipped me.

Blearily I look around, trying to make sense of my surroundings. They'd loaded me into some vehicle, cuffed, gagged, and blindfolded and dropped me... right on the outside of town, not far from the palace itself. In fact if I turn and look hard enough, I can still catch a glimpse of the mansion.

Home. It's the only coherent thought, but it's enough to get me to put one foot in front of the other. If I'm lucky, I'll make it to the train station before nightfall and can find a place to stow away. Even if I don't make it all the way home, at least I'll be out of this damn cold when I die.

Quit being so fucking dramatic, I think bitterly to myself. The damn whip lashes aren't that bad; they're little more than flesh wounds, and most of them aren't even bleeding. Still, the slums are dirty. I don't have medical supplies. If I do make it back, the odds of developing an infection or blood poisoning is more than likely.

Strangely enough, as I'm working on finding a steady rhythm with my feet and using the nearby buildings on the quiet street around me for support, my thoughts stray behind me. To the prince. To Eijirou.

I want to be mad—I want to be fucking pissed that he didn't lie about the missing food, but I can't bring myself to. Whether it's because of the pain or the exhaustion, or the fact that his shitty parents already knew and were testing him, I can't decide.

Yeah, he told the truth. Ratted us out, not knowing they already knew it. But he still tried to help. Had the plan worked, I'd be hauling a huge sack of things to help my family and friends survive the winter on my back instead of the sensation of a raging fucking fire. His help is more than I can say about any other assface in that place.

Doesn't matter, though. I'll never see him again. For some reason, that thought makes my stomach twist. Why should I want to see his stupid, pretty face again? Because we actually are soulmates?

"Ha, yeah right," I mutter to myself aloud.

I push those thoughts aside and keep going. I can't afford to be wasting energy on some bullshit.

I make it several blocks before I find any kind of human activity, and then I begin slowly weaving in and out of alleyways, staying out of the eyes of others as much as I can. No one will help me, not unless I have money. That's something I seemed to have been born with the knowledge of, like how to breathe. It's woven into my DNA. Asking for help will only get me laughed or yelled at.

There comes a point not to far off from where those fuckers dropped me off in the dirt where I can't take it anymore. My legs give out, forcing me to sit in a pathetic heap in a narrow alleyway filled with trash. For this being the capital city and so close to the damn royal palace, it's surprisingly grimy.