It was a quiet morning. The wind blows the trees and hedges with gentle rustles, and in the distance sounds trucks in motion against the asphalt roads; the careful background noise playing over your shallow breaths.

It was a quiet morning, and your body, nearly abandoned by life and hope, lay limply splayed across a stranger’s stairs.

Blended with the muted scenery, a spoor of fresh ruby pours downwards on the steps, the by-product of you desperately crawling like a damaged dog. With several gunshot wounds sustained to your vulnerable body, you wait for the pleasant release of death.

A disturbance, in form of a saviour, prevents you from that relief, as in your barely conscious state you sense the concrete sliding from underneath your weight. Like a rug pulled away beneath you, it’s soon proven that it was rather you being pulled instead.

Momentarily floating, the harsh ground is replaced by cotton; springs giving in as your body is placed on top of a mattress. It appeared the poor soul whose stairs you’d stained harboured the generosity, or curiosity, to aid your wounds.