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Young Writers Society


Stigma Ch.1



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Gender: Female
Points: 1319
Reviews: 4
Sat Jan 28, 2012 7:38 pm
alyssatan says...



It was like seeing my life in a high-definition movie. Everything magnetized, every detail so clear-cut and precise that it was almost blinding. I was nauseated by the lurid brightness of colors, and frightened by the false impression of being trapped inside a perfect photograph. My surroundings seemed endless, yet inescapable. Like a nightmare.

A spattering of my own blood on the sand at my feet released me from the trance. I would have to endure the overwhelming vitality of the world around me. It would last as long as tainted blood coursed through my veins. And there was no known cure for the taint.

I took off running; dodging the dilapidated palms, tumbling through dry bushes, and ignoring the sharp pebbles seeping into my shoes. The lack of cover distressed me. In a desert wasteland, I could only count on the bad aim of my pursuer to keep me alive.

So far, every effect of the so-called superdrug they had injected me with only contributed to my dizziness and inability to think straight, neither of which were assisting me in flight. Each gunshot rang out sharper than it should have, breaking whatever concentration I had left. It was all mechanical at this point. One numb step after another into the heart of the hinterlands. Each agonizing breath just a raucous indication of my current condition.

Then I spotted it. The safehouse. In my eyes, it was a long, run-down shack in the middle of nowhere, as well as the happiest place on earth. In the eyes of my enemy, it was just another barren strip of land housing bones and tumbleweed. A few more strides, and I would disappear into thin air. Just a few more...

My body hit the ground in front of the barrier with a sickening thud. One hand reached helplessly out for it, while the other clutched at a bloody gash in the side of my leg. The bullet had sliced past a few good layers of skin, but hadn’t pierced straight through. I was still disabled. I would die here, inches away from freedom.

Then I felt it; a variation in the supposedly empty air in front of me. The soft imperfection of human skin against my fingertips. And his voice. “Lucille. Come on, you’ve almost made it.”

My pursuer was right behind me now; crouched over my pulsing, crippled body as if I were injured, helpless game waiting for a hunter to deliver the final blow. Sick. I heard laughter and the click of the gun as it finished reloading.

In a rush of reckless determination, I turned my head and launched the next glob of nasty that rose up my famished throat into the mercenary’s face. He stumbled backward, cursing, while I grasped the invisible hand with enough enthusiasm to crush it between my fingers. There was a dizzying pull, and then my own ear-piercing cry of pain as I hit the ground again.

I’d made it inside the barrier alive. I was safe.
  








Time is not your best friend - unless you use it wisely.
— Marco Pierre White