Holding onto my bruised ribs, I watch as Mithra remands Genet’s murderer into the hands of the police. It’s finally hitting me.
Genet was an autocrat. Without him, I’m once again aimless.
“Are you hungry?” Mithra asks, pausing next to me.
A confused policeman is loading the perp into the back of the cruiser.
I nod. “A bit.” Hungry. Cold. Exhausted. In pain. In need of loads of alcohol.
Sad.
“Follow me,” she commands. “I’ll feed you.”
I surprise myself by obeying - but I need someone to take care of me, and sometimes care comes in the form of orders.