Narrative: Micah Callaghan Who: Micah Callaghan What: Escape Where: Something Wicked This Way Comes When: After this and this. Warnings/Rating: Probably boring! :)
Recently escaped from apprehension? Micah stared at the accusatory words on the screen, penned down likely by one of those that had been there with Sam. Apprehension? It made him want to snort with laughter for he hadn't done a thing to the girl other than throw words at her that she apparently couldn't handle. Addictive personality, that one, considering her lack of willpower to simply not respond to him. He wasn't sure if that would have worked in the end, however, given his own mood at the moment.
And it wasn't as though he would have harmed her. He had no inclinations towards blood, towards violence, and the only reason he had done what he had so long ago was because of whatever spell had been laid over the attendees at that blasted party. In his right mind, Micah felt himself a rather calm person, though he could be prone to bouts of anger. He had never harmed anyone though, not until that night.
Besides. He had served his time. Had been released upon completing his sentence. He hadn't escaped anywhere. Was it his fault that the hotel had snatched him away even though he had been on probation in Nevada after his release? Hardly. He had done his time. He wasn't guilty of anything new, but yet here he was, being painted the color of a criminal he had washed from his hands.
It meant help was out of the story, at least from anyone with access on the journals. Not that he blamed them for what they had done. He likely would have done something similar in their place, but that didn't mean he liked it. No, instead he dealt with an arm that throbbed with the heat from that gunshot wound, and no idea what to do in regards to it.
The door he had entered was unfamiliar and strange, the shack he had found his way within old and dusty. Moonlight cut through the gaps between the old wooden boards, providing just enough light for him to check on his arm, to prod tender skin. The bullet had hit him in the meat of his arm as far as he could tell, and the lump he could probe with the tips of his fingers told him that yes, the bullet was likely still in there. Not that he knew how to get it out. The woman on the journals had mentioned antibiotics, painkillers, and Micah had to snort. He doubted that would be coming, not any time soon. Best he could do was to keep it clean and hope for the best.
The bandage on the wound was adjusted and Micah stepped out of the shack into the cool fall air. Dried leaves littered the ground, crunching beneath his feet, and in the distance, he could see the lights from something beckoning to him. It was a sign of civilization, the best he could get right then, so that's where Micah went.
The closer he got, the more he could make out. The smell of popcorn, the sounds of carnival rides, the hollar of those that manned the booths, beckoning the visitors to spend their money, to take a chance. Games were the furthest thing from his mind right then, his arm throbbing something fierce, but all carnivals had a first aid tent, right? Someone to help patch up the scrapes and cuts that were inevitable in an environment such as this. There was a booth nearby hawking food and drinks, and it was from them that Micah was able to get a cup of water. It was gripped carefully in one hand, his cane in the other, and he found a seat at a table nearby to try and tend to his arm as best he could. Gritted teeth and a tense jaw and he worked at that wound, flushing it, rebandaging it, though it did nothing for the bullet in there. He'd have to find someone to help him. Anyone.
The last of the water was tipped back as a drink, and it was then that the sounds of the carousel reached his ears. It slipped in between the rest of the sounds until it was nearly the only thing he could hear, and before long, even he wasn't strong enough to ignore it. Micah swiveled on his seat to look in the direction of the sound, the carousel spinning merrily, bright lights and laughter reaching out to him.
It took effort to stand, effort to walk. The cup was tossed and Micah moved towards the carousel and it's silent promises.