Luis Nichcolas, freshly turned eighteen, no money to his name. He didn't know how to drive, never graduated highschool, and had no parents.
If he had been told what he'd become when he was small, when the St. Nicholas orphanage still had government funding, and he'd still been raised by the sisters, he would have laughed. No doubt about it, as small as he was, he'd always been told he was too confident.
Confident that he could make it, so sure everything would work out in his little world in those halls.
"Unfortunately, little me, I lost." He breathed in the fresh air, the strong wind teasing his hair. He undid the laces of his ratty tennis shoes, and set them on the roof of the six story apartment building he'd been just barely getting by in.
He stood on the ledge, and looked down, the sidewalk was empty, although it was daylight, it had been a particularly sleepy Sunday, no one would be around to stop him, not that anyone would go out of there way too in a town where minding your own business was practically the city motto.
He slowly turned around, and spred his arms out wide, he didn't worry about his things, he didn't have any animals, no one who would miss him, he didn't care what happened anymore. He said a small goodbye to this miserable, no good world, and tipped backwards.
It was quick, he wished he'd chosen a skyscraper instead, so he'd have been able to experince the feeling of flying a bit longer.
His back cracked against the concrete of shodily done sidewalk in front of the building. He wheezed, it was like fire, he couldn't move anything, and the slow, lazy trickle of wetness from all across his back gave small relief.
He didn't try to move, he counted, consoling himself. Just don't move, it'll be over soon as long as you don't do anything. A small, traitorous part of him still wanted to scream for help, still wanted to live.
He ignored it as hard as he could, there was no point, and he wouldn't continue those thoughts. He chose this time for this exact purpose. No one would hear him even if he did scream, he reasoned. No one is around, no one would see him.
Except the screeching of his neighbor's motorcycle wheels interrupted those thoughts. He closed his eyes and thought shit, and the other part of him rejoiced, desperate. He opened his lids again, and the shiny baby oil Ricky always put in his hair was the first thing he smelled, the first thing he saw is the reflective visor of his helmet.
Ricky didn't touch him, smartly, already having been educated on the importance of keeping a person in place after experiencing blunt force. He was fiddling with his phone, one glove thrown to the side. 'He has nice nails, I just noticed.' He thought hysterically.
He mumbled the same, high off pain, no doubt. Ricky swore and tore off his helmet, trying to speak to him, but his words were fuzzy, like he was underwater. He strained his eyes to see Ricky's hand movements, trying to sign something. He didn't see the point, his throat clogging it'd be hard to talk anymore.
He did a small aborted movement of shaking his head, the sharp pain momentarily pulled him out of the cotten, he winced, and Ricky tore off his leather jacket and tucket it around his head, his face twisted in a familiar grimace of admonishment.
'Quit taking off you're clothes idiot, you're gonna ruin 'em.' He wanted to say it, say there wasn't a point, he's gonna die soon anyway.
It was getting harder to breathe, and the thought of finally shot through his brain. More clearer than anything so far. Ricky looked up at something behind him, gesturing erratically, and then he moved backwards. There was shuffling of fabric almost just beyond his vision.
He was heaved in a swift motion and that made his vision go black, maybe it was his eyes closing, maybe his senses were shutting down. He didn't know anymore.
He couldn't move anymore, but it became slightly easier to breathe. He lost consciousness, and forgot what exactly it was he was waiting on.