It was an overcast day, cold and grey and still. Eerie, to say the least. But it only got creepier for bystanders. A pale, thin young woman rested on the cold, hard cement just in front of the notice board in New Town, eyes wide open and mouth slightly open. Her bottom lip was cut, blood dripping down her chin and onto the stone beside her. Her dress was torn on the bottom, as well as the sleeves and tiny bits of the back. Her still freshly wounded back stung in the sun, and the dirt that was kicked up her. Her hair was tangled, some parts cut and ripped. She seemed to be dazed, running a high fever probably. Her chest rose and fell so slowly, she almost looked dead. But, she wasn't, of course.
Above her, planted right on the notice board, a thin parchement nailed loosely to the wood, wrote in a red, drippy liquid - three words were written. It was sloppy, but readable to the eye. All it stated was, "Help me, please."
Would there be a Good Samaritan to help the poor woman? Or would she be ganged up on once again, tortured?
Above her, planted right on the notice board, a thin parchement nailed loosely to the wood, wrote in a red, drippy liquid - three words were written. It was sloppy, but readable to the eye. All it stated was, "Help me, please."
Would there be a Good Samaritan to help the poor woman? Or would she be ganged up on once again, tortured?
