Andrew woke up, dizzy. He couldn’t remember what had happened before he lost his conscience or where he was. The sun was high and burned his eyes. He was thirsty and hungry.
An excruciating pain made him groan when he tried to get up from the dusty ground. His hand grabbed his leg, and he felt the warm and wet blood pouring from a wound he couldn’t see yet.
A shiver of fear run through her body.
He checked his pockets, looking for his phone. Nothing. They had robbed him.
He managed to stand up and look around. There were some stone houses in the distance. He went toward them limping.
His mind began to work. He could remember something from the night before. He was having fun in a night club when he saw something he wasn’t supposed to witness through a back door that one big guy opened for a few seconds: A known politician paying for a substantial amount of drugs to a dealer.
Someone assaulted him, and he didn’t remember anything more.
He continued his tortuous way towards the houses.
But when he arrived, he found a ghost town.
He was on his own, wounded, losing blood, without means to know where he was. Nor any possibility to call for anybody to rescue him. He sat down, his back against the remaining wall of a dilapidated house, not knowing what else to do but await the end.
Two days later, a film crew arrived to shoot some scenes in the ghost town and found him. It was too late.
But he had written on the wall with his blood all his story. The police took pictures, and that very day a promising political career ended abruptly.
In answer to a Fandango Flash Fiction Challenge FFFC