WHERE DOES A MAN MADE OF IRON BELONG ? does he even have a heart to feel home ?
he had been staring up at the sky for around five hours. on his back, broken body sprawled out on the top of a swollen rubbish skip. half his face was missing - along with an arm, a leg, half his chest cavity. everything hurt.
seven hours ago he had woken up in a hospital, shaking from head to toe, teeth chattering in his skull. he had woken from his coma. almost two months he'd been out. police outside his ward, staring at him, nurses informing them to come back a few hours later. criminal or not, a patient was a patient.
within 60 minutes he was gone. as was his bed. patients pointed down the hallway, out the door - a ghost. vanished before the hkpd could swing back around and slam cuffs around his sole wrist.
the makeshift wheelchair was in pieces at the foot of the skip, located in one of the industry district's many dumps. at first he had rooted around for bits and pieces, trying to make a new arm, leg, patch his face up.
far too quick he had become tired. throbbing with a sore aching, joints burning. isaiah had hauled himself up and found himself laid back on the broken-spring laden mattress perched on the top of some split bin bags and plywood.
kaleidascope vision brought up a salt-bile taste into his mouth, bringing up nothing when his shoved two fingers down his throat. all he managed to do was prompt a venemous pain to shoot from his empty stomach.