The cottage had, unsurprisingly, been locked. Martin found the key after only a few minutes of searching. He simply reached beneath, behind and above any object that offered a good hiding position, until he found the key behind one of the ski racks. He wouldn’t exactly have shed any tears if he had needed to break a window, though that would’ve let in a lot cold air afterwards.
At least he didn’t have to worry about the cottage being alarmed. The cottage was pretty old-fashioned, not supporting an ounce of electrical power. But it contained exactly what Martin desired right now: Canned food, a water supply, medical supplies and a bed. Several, in fact, but Martin just required one. Just for good measure, some of the visitors had left behind various pieces of clothing. Most of it for children, but he lucked out and found some in his size as well.
He immediately realized that no matter how clever he might be, he would be unable to hide the fact that someone had broken into the cottage. That, in itself, wasn’t a big deal; what he was afraid of was that the wrong people would find found out that he had been there.
The party had been held on a Saturday, and now it was Sunday evening. It was exceedingly rare for the cottage to be utilized during weekdays. That gave him at least five days to come up with a plan. Less so if his wound was infected, which he more or less had proof of. Pus had leaked from the wound when he cleaned it. He might also have had a fever before he found the medkit.
That had also triggered another worry. He had only a single wound, meaning the bullet had not passed through him. That implied the bullet was still buried inside? Not exactly the healthiest of prospects. He knew people could survive with bullets lodged in them, but that didn’t make it a good idea to attempt it. On the other hand, finding a place to dig out a bullet without leaving a paper trail ranked pretty high on his list of unrealistic future prospects.
He knew staying in the cottage was delaying the inevitable, he was just not sure exactly which inevitability it would be that hit him first. Right now, delaying itself was inevitable, as he struggled to keep his eyes open.
The second day gave the opportunity for a lot more introspection. Mostly because of the lack of anything to distract himself with. As a regular human being addicted to the entertainment his phone provided him, he grew so bored out of his mind that he had started reading a book on Scout leadership he found. Given a few more days like this, he would probably be eager to plow through the bible as well, as unlikely a prospect as that sounded. Needless to say, he was not exactly from a christian family.
At this point he’d even be glad to see customers again. Or complainers, depending on which of Martin’s colleagues you asked. Even at their worst, Martin found customers slightly irritating, but no worse. He’d always had a talent for getting people on the more agreeable side, which earned him the dubious title “Hell-handler” on his job. Whenever one of his colleagues caved in, he’d be the one they’d send the customers to. And about four out of five times, he’d get the upset customers to agree to some sort of compromise.
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For as long as he could remember, Martin has always known which buttons to press to get what he wanted. It was as if he always had a hunch about what would satisfy the opposing party. This came naturally to him, albeit not completely free. Social settings always left him rather drained, so he enjoyed a quiet evening alone more often than not.
This talent of his was surprisingly useless in maintaining a long-term relationship. He had a tendency to charm women with his inexplicable sense of matching his partner’s desires and taste. This worked well in his favor in the short term. However, contrary to popular belief, it was not necessarily good to always give someone what they want. Several of his entanglements had ended because his girlfriend felt their relationship was one-sided. He could supply plenty of what the woman desired, yet none of his girlfriends ever got a good grip of what he desired out of their relationship. The problem was, he did not desire much at all. He was perfectly happy not investing a whole lot of his personal feelings, which understandably made the relationship quite shallow.
Thoughts of women quickly brought his current relationship to light. It was quite debatable whether to call it an actual relationship or not. He had come in contact with one of his old flames again. Given time, they might rekindle their feelings for one another, but it was far too early to conclude anything. At this point he would not be surprised if he never saw her again. He just hoped that whoever was after him would leave her alone.
On a similar topic, he also hoped his family would go scot-free. His father’s fate was already sealed: His Parkinson's disease had already developed to the point where little of his personality could be gleamed through the hazy fog of dementia. Martin’s relationship with his mother could at best be described as ‘complicated’. At times, he maintained no contact with her for weeks or even months. Despite that, he had no desire to break contact with her completely. Not to even mention seeing her dead.
He found himself slightly regretting not bringing his violin on his trek to the forest. Granted, it had suffered a few bullet holes and, as a result, probably had lost most of its acoustics, but it’d still do wonders for his nerves. He was not the type of guy to enjoy “the forest’s sounds”. Wherever he went, his headphones and music library went with him. Or at the very least a radio or podcast or something.
The worst part of the torture was that he knew he had the solution at hand: He could probably boot up his cell phone without a sim card, and have access to at least the offline content on his phone. But, tempting as that was, the remaining charge on his phone might at some point save his life. So... saving his life or sanity? Tough choice.
The third day offered a solution to the problem, albeit hardly a satisfactory one. He had run out of useful medication in the medkit. Not only the adult ones: he’d always chewed through the children’s doses, quadruple dose each time. With the drugs gone, his agony was free to dance tango on his head, and called in ‘headache’ and ‘fever’ to the party.
A quick visual scan of the wound squarely classified it in the ‘needs medical attention’ category. His prospects weren’t strictly in the grave yet, but it was certainly worth checking out the nearby apartments. He resolved that he’d call emergency services if the problem could not be solved the usual way: Through persistent procrastination.