Unstable

3- (Thistle)

The prisoner surged forwards, claws unsheathed, and grabbed the keyring on the little guard's neck. The little guard's orange pelt bristled in panic. "L-let me go!" He yowled.
The prisoner ignored him, cackling. He found the key to his cell on the ring and unlocked the door, pulling the little guard inside. "I'm hungry!" He said, his face twisting into a devilish grin.

Thistle moped around his room, still scared from earlier. Hawthorn had yelled at him, but he didn't mind. That was just Hawthorn. He didn't mean it. It was the new prisoner that got to him. Those blood red eyes... He'd seen the look on those eyes before... He walked to his bed, careful not to step on his shadow. His shadow didn't like it when he did that.

He lied down for a bit, turning on the lamp he'd put behind his bed. His shadow was in front of him now, where he could keep an eye on it. He moved his right ear. It moved its right ear. He opened his mouth. It opened its mouth. He lifted a paw; it did the same. All things shadows did. Safe for now, he thought, breathing a sigh of relief. He ran a paw over the stump of his left ear. It had been quite a while since he lost that ear... He couldn't remember very much of how life was like before then... He fiddled with his tailring, which marked him as a prison guard. The gold sparkled in the lamplight. He smiled slightly, looking at it. He liked his tailring, the way it glistened like that. He had an earring too, on his right ear. He was proud enough of his one earring, but Hawthorn had two: he'd been promoted after the run-in with the Crimson Cannibal. Thistle sighed. Without Hawthorn, he'd probably be dead, just another meal. He glanced towards his shadow nervously. But it was still the same. Sometimes, he didn't feel like the Crimson Cannibal had died that day...

He heard a sound by the door. He looked up, and saw Hawthorn's splotched white paw disappear around the door. There was a tray of food on the ground, left there for him. He got up and prowled over to it carefully, watching his shadow distrustfully. He ate the food quickly; he couldn't give his shadow any time to ambush him. He slowly crept back over to his bed. He supposed it was nighttime now, and that he probably should get some rest. But first he had to check to make sure he was safe. He made a series of motions, while watching his shadow carefully. It behaved as a shadow should. So he slowly, carefully, put out the lamp and closed his eyes.

He found himself in an endless field of swirling red, ebbing and flowing like a river of blood. He saw a flash of movement behind him, and he bolted. He ran and he ran, until his muscles ached. Ahead, he saw a cell door. He fumbled with his keys, trying to find the one to open it, but they were all bent or broken, twisted into grotesque shapes beyond recognition. He saw another flash of movement, and turned to see his shadow. It got up, towering over him, and suddenly it was the Crimson Cannibal. Thistle ran the other way, hoping to escape. He felt a tug at his left ear. He stopped, tears rolling down his face. There was nothing he could do. The cannibal craned over him, a sadistic smile on its face. It opened its mouth and hissed. "YOU THOUGHT YOU COULD ESCAPE? HA! WHAT A JOKE... I NEVER LET A MEAL GET AWAY! RUN ALL YOU LIKE, LITTLE SCAREDY-CAT! I'LL STILL BE HERE!"

Thistle shot awake, screaming. "HAWTHORN!" He called, hyperventilating. He curled up and turned his back to the room until he came, doing his best to stay calm. Hawthorn lit the lamp.

"N-no! N-not that one!" He said, frantically fiddling with the one behind his bed.

"Thistle... Is this about your shadow again...?" Hawthorn said, frowning. "You need to let it go... Shadows aren't living things... They're simply what happens when light hits you..."

Thistle did best to keep his breathing calm. "N-no... I-I had that nightmare again... That HE was back..." He said, the dark circles under his eyes drooping. Thistle had never slept well since the incident. He was plagued with nightmares and insomnia and generally never got a decent night's sleep.

"Thistle... He's gone... Look, here, here's the proof..." He said, pulling his knife out of the sheath on his right foreleg and dropping it on the floor. The very tip of the knife was missing, having chipped off on that fateful day.

"He's gone, Thistle, and he's never coming back. Go back to sleep... You're okay... It was just a dream..." He said, hoping his partner would get some rest.

Thistle nodded, reassured for the time being. Hawthorn put his knife away, and went back to his room. But Thistle sat in bed awake the rest of the night, with the lamp on, not trusting sleep when it could betray him with dreams.