In front of the hospital, by the revolving doors, sits a man.
The brown, tanned stump of one of his legs is visible beneath his hospital gown, and a small tower of IV’s and various bags of fluid loom over him. It’s a hot, gritty day, and he stares blankly across the street at a Tim Horton’s, indifferent to the people passing by. He doesn’t care what anybody thinks of him. These are almost certainly amongst his last days. He has a large bottle of Jack Daniels he’s taking hits from, and this seems some manner of providence, as if a last wish granted.
Yet, all the wonder and beauty that must have bloomed in this life, too, his lineage stretching forever back, all now an arrow pointing to this place and time. Broken and alone, fuzzing out his final memories on the burning concrete of a metropolis far from home, he sits there like a monk about to set himself on flames, the blood of heroes still in his veins.
