Luneshale Pass your body laid out on these filthy floors

what she speaks isn’t common, but it’s not his tongue either. soto gapes as if his thoughts have scattered; it’s close, but not close enough for conversation. 

the look of concern worn on her face encourages him. 

desperate, and slightly delirious from his own blood loss, soto abandons scruples and points to his cuts — most lacerations by now. 

then, even though he barely knows what she’s asking, he brings her to sangre. 

sangre, in fucking pieces on the floor. 

he points to the piecemeal scrapings of desert grass he’s assembled by her stony cot. 

then he looks at this kind-hearted stranger and speaks: ayúdanos.