Fantasy Novel - Chapter 2 - On the Run

Here's Chapter 2 of my story. Hope you enjoy and thanks for reading!

Chapter 2. I – On the run

Daemon Heniath of Blacknight thought himself not a special man. He thought he was a normal human being living in this strange, strange world. Sure, he was once Lord of “The Dark Place” for a good fifteen years, but he never considered that had made him any more special than any other person. He merely liked to consider himself an average mid-thirty year old.

He did, however, know what did make him special. It was that unstoppable will and infinitely strong vigor within him that resided in his belly and made his heart thump stronger than most others’.

You see, Daemon was not a rich man, nor was he gifted with a peculiar yet powerful skill, and there wasn’t even a hint of any demonian blood within him that could have given him a palette of abilities he could rely on. No. Dameon was from his day of birth a street kid. A street kid with parents and a brother and sister, a feat to be recognized.

Daemon knew he could learn from his mistakes. He prized his ability to move on, and he could always let go of one thing easily to move to the next.

You see, Daemon did not become Lord of Blacknight all by himself. He had built a group and they rose to power, his brother at his side. But he never saw it coming that jealousy and other motives could be such dangerous feelings. How could he have trusted them?

He thought about this a lot. He also thought a lot of his family, but he usually skipped over the chapter. There were a few things that had hurt that he rather suppressed, and suppression was easier than confrontation at the moment.

But as willing and courageous as he was, there was a fear that dwelled within him, as did in any man, woman or creature. This fear stemmed from his very own family. Daemon feared more than anything in the world to lose his brother, or worse yet, watch him fall. As he thought about this he could not help his nerves twitch on end and his head sounding the alarm to switch to another topic. It was something he thought rarely about, but when he did he couldn’t stop.

But none of it really mattered, for the situation he was in now was one he never thought he would find himself in. And that was something.

Daemon sat on his dusty bed as he tapped his foot nervously on the ground. This room was crowded with old, rotting furniture, tightly fit within the four walls that surrounded him. He stared at the parchment in his hand, reading it for the umpteenth time this very night. He had deciphered it hours ago, right when the race-raven had come to his place to deliver it to him. He didn’t write back this time, because he knew it wouldn’t be a good idea. However, a thought entered his mind. Did others know where he was, too? Shivers ran up his spine as he shook off the thought quickly. He resumed staring at the coded letter.

“Tonight” slithered on the piece of parchment. “Tonight”. He needed to flee, to get out of here. He’d spent the last few nights in this room. It wasn’t anything special; the bed nestled some dust, and there stood an elephantine cupboard on the other wall, rotten to its roots. In his opinion there had been no safer place than the Moaning Motel in Dagger’s Hang. However, even it was dangerous now.

Daemon sprang to his feet, thoughts clouding his very own mind, and hurried to the drawers next to the bed. The first opened like a reluctant dog’s snout. Inside he removed the tongue of clothe and cloth and glanced at the shiny object that hid beneath. The flintlock glittered gold in the damp light. On the butt he read the rusty name again, “Cornelius Edward…”, though he could not make out the surname. With this his memories flashed, and he grabbed it, closed the drawer and looked out the window. It was dark and cold. The window nestled damp air, and the tree outside kept crashing its branches against the glass in the wind.

He took a deep breath, (sweat had by now reached the tip of his toes), and checked for ammunition. Empty. With that he grabbed his withered scavenger coat, pulled on his leathery boots, grabbed his flask and a picture, which he tucked into his coat, kissed his irregular six-edged necklace around his neck and was off and out of the room.

He paced down the corridor, his thoughts killing him as they did every night. Down the flight of stairs, through another corridor, more stairs, more thoughts. When he reached the reception landing he looked towards the desk of Sir O’Brian. It was empty, apart from a small ferret sized creature, that sounded more like a parrot than anything else, screeching the words, “Goodbye, have a nice day”. Amused he ran towards the double doors and kicked them open, using the opportunity of violence.

He reached the dark outside with an unexpected surprise. The temperature was sinking rapidly to what felt like the ice of the Northern Caps. The chilly air surprised even the little hair on his chin, which shriveled in the cold and froze. His wrinkles of age seemed to freeze, too, impinging his face with senility.

He surveyed the slithering road. Left or right? Right would lead to Blacknight, enemy territory. Left would lead to Devilium, not exactly safe, either. But “not exactly safe” was safer than “enemy territory”, so left it was.

As he ran he thought. His thoughts were the only thing that kept him alive, but at the same time were the only thing that nailed his headaches into his forehead. Why him? Why did it have to be him? Why couldn’t it have been some other man, from the Eastern End? There was no point in asking questions where there were no answers to. Just run.

The night passed slowly.

The road was long and ruthless. There was definitely no sign of civilization in sight. He walked for hours, for he did not count them. It was a good time to think about his life, just like the other million times he had thought about it the past year.

The days of Summer were dying, and the Autumn was slowly creeping in on the world. The Desert to his right, he did not dare enter it. A few times several creatures passed him or trotted along with him. One time there was a Slyeyed Fox, which stalked him for a couple hours. He wanted to shake it off but couldn’t, and so decided to leave it in peace. Another time there was a lonely Dromion, most likely escaped from the Desert’s Tribe, he thought, and he felt free to hitch a ride on its back for some well-earned rest. However, with no destination for another few hundred or even thousand miles on end, his life seemed very worthless. His primary aim was not to be caught.

He knew he did this well.

After many long hours into the night, Daemon felt a surge of tiredness overcome him, and his only will was to sleep now, no matter where. His body wanted to sag to the ground, though his feet kept moving. However, as his eyes drooped, he suddenly heard a cry.

A shrill shriek.

All of a sudden he was wide-awake, as alert as the fox that was now gone. He slowed his walk and tried to peer into the distance. His heart thumped unhurriedly but deeply. His ears seemed enlarged, his pupils wide, piercing into the dark. He kept walking.

Another cry.

He stood still. The Circular Route was not usually filled with abnormal monstrosities, however he had heard of Northern Fire-head Demons scavenging around at times. Though this was no Fire-head Demon.

Suddenly the flap of wings passed his ear, and as he ducked he noticed a raven fly into the distance. It cried once more. His body filled with relief. It was only a raven, though they were quite scary. He followed the bird’s direction, and he noticed that the ground beneath him slowly turned from smooth to gravel. Then he saw a building. Another. Three, four. Then he saw many buildings, small, cottage-like houses, and through the middle there snaked a street. And as he drew nearer he came to a sign: “Devil’s Gate”. This little village was as silent as the depths of the sea, but it did not stop him from walking. His alertness did not subside, but his nervousness did slightly.

Left and right there stood homes, shops, bars, potion-stores. He wondered why there was not a single candle on in one of the houses. The place seemed as deserted as the desert itself.

As he walked on the cries returned, this time many more than before. There were ten, twenty, thirty cries of ravens. He walked onwards. Then he took a closer look around. This place was vacant. It was dead. Some windows were shattered; some doors were broken, creaking in the slight breeze that drifted through the village. He was walking over splinters of glass, which he had not noticed before. There was a house to the left of him with a swinging gate and a raven on the outside porch. He turned to it and strode toward the entrance.

Past the gate he kicked the air to scare the raven, then looked at the sign that was stuck into the ground before the door. It read “Mr. and Mrs. Goodheart”, and he entered the house.

It was dark. He made out a room, very much like a living room, with a table, a carpet, some chairs, a comfortable couch and some candles here and there. On the desk to the left stood a few paintings of the married couple, and next to them were paintings of two young men, smiling in an array of colours. He grabbed a candle, but had no way to light it. He searched for some matchsticks, opened a few drawers, and was lucky to find one inside a matchbox. He took it out, scraped it against the box and with a “puff” the match was aflame. He lit the candle and blew out the stick and started to walk around.

He discovered some books on a shelf, some of which he had read himself (“Beast Brains and Beyond” by the Bloody Chef, “How to train any Demon with the Click of your Finger” by Greyhorn Klicker, “Deep Sea Creatures and Beasts” by Wail Gillwater).

The table in the back was still decorated and set with cutlery, though there were no plates. He found that the carpet was as black as coal, and as dry as it, too, for it crumbled beneath the weight of his feet.

Then he noticed to his right, next to the entrance door, a flight of stairs. He approached them and began to climb. Every step was a creak and a click, and on the sidewalls were more paintings of the couple – by the mountains, holding hands, a wedding. After a few moments he reached the top of the twirling stairs, and found two rooms, one to his left, the other to his right. First he entered the bedroom, which was left. It was messy and raided. The sheets were ripped and the walls seemed burnt. He crouched down to find blood drops leading out of the dormitory and into the corridor toward the other room. Leaving the bedroom behind him, he followed the trail back outside and into the other; a study. His eyes still following the blood-drops, they finally came to a halt and there he found a horror that chilled is spine.

On the floor lay the couple, carelessly slumped onto each other, as pale as ghosts. Mr. Goodheart’s mouth was wide open, as he lay on his back, on top of his wife. Mrs. Goodheart’s jaw had been ripped off her mouth, and it was lying a few feet away from her blood-drenched face. Daemon felt the urge to throw up, but contained himself, as he thought this would disrespect the dead people’s home.

Finding it hard to turn away from the sight, he looked at the desk. He walked towards it where he set the candle down and examined the book that lay open there, a pen at its side. He began to study it. It seemed a diary. The diary of Mr. Goodheart. He flicked through a few pages and read;

Wednesday, 28th July, 1507

Dear Diary,

Today was a remarkable day. Mrs. Flourish had told us that the new deliveryman is actually NOT a nasty man, but rather friendly indeed. I had tried to talk to him several times, but never got the chance to. You see, for a long time I’d been looking for someone to deliver a thing or two to my sons in Devilium, but no one wanted to take on the task. After all, who in their right mind comes to Devil’s Gate in the first place, right? With Devilium so far away, no one even thinks of travelling farther than the Moaning Motel, which isn’t even that far at all…

He flicked the page.

Friday, 30th July, 1507

Dear Diary,

Today was a very weird day. A few people from outside the village came in to “inspect” our people and looked through the houses and all. They didn’t do anything, but they seemed very suspicious of something. They spent almost half of an hour in each house across the village (granted, not that many houses), and then they left again, around two hours ago. It is now almost Midnight, and I feel very strange about them. However, what had uplifted me was Mrs. Flourish and her talk about botany. She truly knows how to take care of both plants and animals…

He flicked the page again.

Monday, 2nd August, 1507

Dear Diary,

I have horrible news. Mrs. Flourish is dead. Her house had been raided by some people. This is horrible. I am crying as I am writing this. I will never forget the days I spent with that woman. She was an incredible lady, always uplifting and always full of vigour and will. My wife is as heart-struck as I am, but I can hardly even write about it…

Another flick.

Wednesday, 5th August, 1507

Dear Diary,

This is most likely my last entry. If anyone reads this, our village has been attacked by The Descent. They have come to look for the man on the poster. I hope I can get my wife to safety, and I have left a letter for my sons in the drawer if anyone who reads this is also of good heart. I must go now. My wife needs to get to safety. It’s been a nice time talking to you. Goodbye.

The entries stopped there. Daemon’s heart raced like a horse on wheels. He looked at the couple on the floor now, one over the other, staring into space. He walked over and shut their eyes, his hand shivering as he touched the woman without the jaw.

As he got back up he went back to the diary. This time it occurred to him. That last entry – A poster…Which poster? Was there one here? He searched the study. But the floor was a mess and there was no poster there. The desk also had nothing but the diary, a pen, some blood, and the candle on it. Then he spun around and saw it, hanging on the door. He walked over and examined it. There it was, the picture. His face. Though it was quite outdated, for it was drawn at the time when he was Lord. He was still wearing nice robes and looking mighty, and above all, he had posh, straightened hair. Now, in comparison, he was a flee, a worthless ant waiting to decay. On top of his picture were printed the words, “WANTED – Extremely Dangerous man, Exiled Emperor of Blacknight wanted for murder of his brother”. He couldn’t believe it. The resurrection of hatred growled at him once more. He crumpled it up and threw it out of the window.

Trying to keep his mind off his own brother, he walked to the desk and grabbed the candle. He opened the drawer and found within the mess a letter, addressed to “Joel and Leveron Goodheart”. He took it, buried it within his coat, and closed the drawer again.

His business here was done. Fume still raging out of him, he walked back down the stairs, blew out the candle and left the house. He then took a left. After a few moments’ walk he arrived at what seemed the centre of the village, and what he saw there caused his insides to twist and turn like never before.

His stomach wanted to vomit, his mouth didn’t want to open, his head wanted to explode. As Daemon stood in the village centre he became witness to an utterly gross encounter. There where a large fountain should have been, were stacked in a pile, countless dead bodies, dried with blood and decaying under their own nauseating smell. Then there were the hundreds of ravens that feasted merrily on the flesh, which was so generously offered to them. Daemon was rooted to the ground, he could not move. The ravens flew past him, some of them with meat dangling from their beaks, some of them flying towards the dump. He was petrified. Trying to regain his balance he encircled the towering mountain of people. The smell was so repellent that he had to breathe through his mouth, and even this was sickening enough to cause the faint hearted to lose consciousness. He was prepared for pretty much anything, apart from this. The repugnance that was filled within him writhed like a worm in his stomach, unsettling him.

There were many faces. Faces of wives and husbands, children, shopkeepers, bartenders, potion makers, deliverymen. Each lay there as if asleep with their eyes wide open, some of them missing their jaw, just like Mrs. Goodheart did. In revolt he turned away and supported himself on a building, careful not to faint. A thought entered his head that made him want to kill himself. All of this, all of these dead people, they all died…because of him. The Descent wanted to find him. They did their searching. He threw up.

After a few moments he came to himself again, and was able to stand on both feet. He put his hand on his mostly bald head, and thought of what to do next. Should he show himself? He would save lives, many lives but his own. Should he give in? Give in to the power of his very own brother, who he did not even know lived? The world was disintegrating on him. The very reality was fading into twilight of consciousness, when…

Footsteps…here…there! No, the other way. He turned…no one, nothing, there! A whisper called to him. Freaky and surreal, as if the dead resurrected and spoke to him; as if he had any idea what that sounded like. Then, someone spoke, low and calm, “Who walks there…?”

The shock was so hard that he jumped, and found himself staring into two slits of white, a black circle at the centre. At first he thought some Werewolf had appeared out of nowhere, then he thought of a Volcunuum Flame-Ghost, and then of the pile of dead, camouflaged in the night. Surely the man was not of white colour, or else he would be easily detectable.

Daemon’s right arm flew out and he hit the thing hard with the butt of his flintlock. His arms reached out and grabbed for the figure’s shoulders, and the figure did the same. They flew to the ground and rolled over, scraping their faces against the rocky gravel. After a few moments of ruthless scratching and crawling on the ground, the man stood up and staggered, reached for his flintlock, which he had lost momentarily, and cocked.

The being on the floor rolled to its knees, and like a lion surrendering itself, bowed down before the gun.

“Who are you?” asked Daemon, weapon still in midair.

The opponent on the floor said nothing, and only a sigh of pain escaped his body. Though after a silence that was unbearable, the first words rumbled out of the defenceless man.

“I thought I finally got to know a friendlier kind when I saw you, but you’re crazier than I thought!”

Gun still pointing, he stood watching the black man.

“How did you find me? No one’s supposed to know,” said Daemon. His voice was so croaky; one could have mistaken him for a frog.

“I don’t know, but you throwing up was kind of loud, and I thought, hey! that has to be fun. So I set up on my way. Or do I have no right here, either?” The black man’s voice was demanding now, trying to earn respect. And Daemon understood this, nodded quietly, though not quite sure if the dark figure could have seen him; he did not see the dark figure.

“You have every right,” started Daemon, tucking his flintlock back into his trousers. “So you can at least for tonight survive without being assaulted for no reason.”

“For tonight?” asked the young man, getting up cautiously.

“For tonight. I hope you’re not deaf? I hear it that some of you…”

But the man, defending for his race, cut him off instantly, “What you see and hear about us isn’t anything but false truth. You want the truth, you get it. And I’m here to give it to you, gladly! I guess I can thank the Angels and the Lord for making me dark-skinned, otherwise I’d never survive streets at night.”

“Do not thank the Angels. The Angels have nothing to do with it. And there is only one Lord, and his doing you can see behind you,” he nodded towards the pile of the dead.

“Tragic sight. Can’t believe I stumbled across this village to find it nothing more than totally wrecked,” the black man gulped.

“It was Blacknight,” stated Daemon blatantly.

“Blacknight? How d’you know?” asked the stranger.

“…I read it. It’s The Descent’s doing, no more, no less.”

“Blacknight… Was heading there right now. Want to come?” This question seemed so surreal, Daemon wasn’t even sure it was what the man had asked. Though he seemed to beg for company.

“Did you not just hear me? Blacknight is not safe. The city is overrun by rats…metaphorically speaking.”

“You Blacknightians and your language, always these metaphors. You’re a bunch of empty coconuts.”

Daemon laughed as he realised the black man had just used a metaphor himself. If he could just persuade him to come along. The way he was going. He needed assistance, needed encouragement on this long voyage he was taking. But there was no chance of it. He had just come the way the man was going in. But before a suggestion could be made, the man opposite him spoke aloud.

“What’s your name?”

“What’s yours?” came the cold reply. But the black man took it pleasantly.

“Labradous McDawn. Nickname Labrador, codename,” and he said it in such a soundless whisper, he did not know it was real, it could have been communicated from mind to mind, “Lynx.”

“Lynx?!” The man cried aloud, but Labradous hushed him loudly.

“Are you insane?! That was…just…AH!” Frustration broke over him, and Daemon wanted to know his reasons for this unexplained terror. “The winds are on the dark side, they say. Carry any information with them that they find useful, to…him.” Funny, there was no wind blowing.

But he knew exactly whom Labradous meant with “him”. And it was then that he was reassured that times had changed, and he along with them.

That very day, a few hours earlier, in his room in Blacknight, Luxandar Beckings was writing a message. For hours he’d been writing it, going home early from work just to do so. He had to construct a letter which only two people in this world could understand, for if anyone found out he was writing this message he’d surely be executed.

Beckings was a wealthy, skinny man, his hair always in a slight mess, his pockets always quite stuffed with money. His room was decorated lushly with exotic pictures of Grey-spotted Whales and Bloody Butterflies hung around the room. But he was of good nature, never a bragger, always polite. He was also head of the city council of Blacknight, which he was quite proud of. Not that he was proud of Blacknight, but rather of his status. The city itself, though wonderfully built, was rotten to its roots.

He was having a hard time writing this one letter, but this was nothing unusual. He hated it. If there was one thing he strived to give up, it was writing letters, especially ones that needed a secret message.

It was not that Beckings was a simpleton or even in the slightest bit dumb, but the self-motivation within him drained ever so quickly and suddenly he would forget it was there in the first place. Maybe it was time for something new, he would think, something to sparkle vigor into his irksome little life.

There was a slight murmur outside his window, a sizzling that sounded like cinder slowly carbonising into ash. And as there was nothing better to do than be oblivious to his own messy handwriting, he stood up droopingly, and padded to the king-sized window by the wall, where he had a perfect view of the city. He fixed his eyes on to the streets below, which seemed to twirl around corners of buildings, a natural flow bending slyly around into dark passageways, blending an image of lies, which the citizens themselves painted. Alleys sprouted with energy, and the crowd had a fast pace to it, racing to the next grocery store, or sprinting to limited cake in the bakery around the turn. It was a wonderful city, at first sight.

Though it was all a deception. Filled with plunder and murder, it seemed to be the heart of evil. This is how some people thought it had achieved its very own nickname, “The Dark Place”. Nonetheless, the crowd was filled with joy and money that evening, and everything was looking like a good thief’s opportunity to plunder.

Yet that was not of Beckings’ concern. His attention drew back to his letter.

Anyway, he thought. This wasn’t the first time he’d written a letter, and unfortunately, probably not the last. The thought of this was even more depressing than writing the actual letter. His crooked nose gave a sniff, and wiggled in the evening sun, which steadily sunk beneath the horizon like a depressed sloth’s head. It was certainly getting time to finish, and three lines were insufficient. A few scribbles continued a pointless and, so he thought, complimenting message, yet aided in the secret encoding. A full stop brought it to an end, and Beckings slumped back into his chair. His crescent moon spectacles, its frames glittering with the gold that framed them, reflected his own messy handwriting.

He had been communicating with the old Lord for a good time now, writing a letter back and forth every month or so. He knew that if anyone found out about this, he’d be hanged, but his delivery ravens were witty. He folded the letter in two, slipped it inside a sachet, and waxed it closed with his very own stamp.

For a moment he rested, thinking this through once more. He knew he needed to go down into the city, meet the two men for the raven, then hurry back up, get his things and leave the city. The Descent were going to raid the Moaning Motel any day now, and the old Lord had to leave for his own safety.

Right, he thought, and so he got up, put on his cloak, disguising himself and stepping out into the congested town.

The streets were covered with the intensity of savagery and mischievousness, and the place was crowded like no other day. The evening sun hung on a thin string, threatening to drop any second over the edge of the world, and the sky blurred with every ray of light fiddling at its rose red dye.

The redness of the sky reflected off every window, causing light beams to rocket into the next mirror, perplexing every being that walked across them.

Beckings swished past in his cloak, and slipped through the narrow spaces in the crowd. The cloak floated here and there, trying not to disturb anyone or thing which it made contact with, and before one could turn to look at it, it would have disappeared like evaporation.

He made for a distant building, thumb’s nail in height. He was rushing seemingly faster than the cool winds were past the pack of people, unnoticed.

As time passed, the cloak, in mid-air, imprinted muddy footsteps on the ground, acting like invisible feet stepping down hard on the rock. The feet ran along the pathway of the wide streets, still filled with a horde of zombies, padding like penguins in search of food.

The sunlight dimmed in the alley which Beckings entered, narrowed by two buildings at each side, disturbing anyone who had a claustrophobic fit. Nonetheless, the alley was occupied by two other miniature figures, belching as they made their way over to the flying cloth.

Eyes met, mouths dried, fingers trembled. Two hands emerged from the swathe, grasping the small envelope. The other man’s hand accepted it, drooling with anticipation. Beckings discovered it was hard to let go, but the man snatched it away from him.

They stood there for a while, as the cloak still swayed in the breeze that crawled its way into the passageway.

“These are harsh times,” a voice cracked the silence. It was croaky and could remind anyone of a cricket at night. The man carried on, ‘The Lord and The Descent know more than they should.’

There it stopped, dropping into silence and regaining its position of inferiority, bowing before Beckings; though he stayed put, shoulders and chest high, controlling the momentary dominance of breathless seconds. The man counted them, and then nodded to his slouchy companion diagonal to him: he disappeared. Now what remained was a strongly built man, eyeing the darkness of the cloak in front.

They seemed to be petrified for a while, conveying words through psychic. But the meeting was over, and they knew that not long after, so were their lives. Beckings left the alley, ready to die.

He hurriedly paced through the crowd he just trespassed, back to his room, and as the cloak entered the room and locked the door, it dislocated itself from the man underneath. Beckings sighed deeply, thinking back at the happening, and then the dilemma was solved in his mind.

He hung the cool cloak on the hanger beside the desk, seating himself on the neat bed in the centre of the room.

Why had he just done what he did? What use was there in sending the old emperor into corners of fear in his own mind? How cold-hearted could one be?

He reminded himself of the times when the organization had been newly formed, back in his teenage days. He thought about the young freedom fighter and his desperation for a better life, bringing new methods of rights into the world outside his limits. And then he thought about the senility of that very man nowadays, probably somewhere in the distance, suffering under his own illness of, what he presumed, was schizophrenia.

He shook his head wildly.

He glared at his pictures for a while, before returning back himself into the world outside his dreams. He got up and strode around the room, pacing it like a hungry jaguar. His whole life seemed vacant, and it was about time to pour some lucrative luminosity into it. But it seemed ludicrous, and it had never been right to go against your own sense; he was abstemious, and a little refreshment against this refrain would flicker some pleasure into the scene.

Blatantly he chose to scurry over to the shelves beyond the desk, at the other end of this diminutive room, light a match which he performed out of his jacket pocket, and aflame all the pieces of parchments, tear all the smaller notebooks, buying himself some valuable time in the process, and turned to kick the very desk over. He failed.

He clutched his foot, hopping on the other, gritting his rotting teeth in pain and aggravation, and let out a silent scream of anger. He hopped along the flaming room, the pain still lingering heavily, and turned the door handle half way.

Shut.

He tried and tried, clicking the bronze knob each time violently with his free hand. A scintillant light began to narrow its eyes at him.

Beckings turned back like a ballet dancer in a tireless motion, and his eyes set alight as he watched the demonian fire stretch unlimitedly along the wood and paper, its next victim the furry carpet that settled peacefully on the flagstone floor.

His mouth dropped suddenly as his eyes met the keys to the door behind him melting ferociously in the heat and light. The yellow faded from the metallic structure, now desperately imploding as the seconds hurried away. And he knew this was only a sample of his very own skin.

He saw his last chance in the heavy crystal of the large window, untouched and peacefully swinging in the rising moon outside. He saw it and took it.

He counted the amount of steps he took before valiantly, and yet naively, crashing into the splinters of the glass, flying into his freedom of the prison he had built himself, before realising that he touched the green grassy fur of bush and leaves on the brown, soggy ground.