The boy’s footsteps echo with ferocity in the silent pulse of the night. Even the shrouded cape the darkness spun thinly in the air could not hide the pounding of flesh against rock. In the disrupted silence, he felt insanity spiraling throughout his veins.
The stars. The stars are gone. Where am I heading?
Only trivial things could bring him comfort now.
Yet, he could not stop running.
One instance of hesitation would leave him dead.
One ill-purposed breath would be followed by the grizzly contusions of shredded limbs.
He found the thoughts hindering. Despite the incessant doubting, he pushed himself further with only the thought of reaching safety on his mind. Safety. The words echoed off empty walls of his mind, long devoid of thought, as a ball would off of pavement. Safety was a word that simply no longer existed.
The boy heard the ferocious barks, and swore that breath was radiating hot, down his neck, and that saliva from overgrown teeth was dripping off yellowed fangs. However, he must remind himself that this mindset will get him nowhere. Nowhere but into the very same fate he was trying to escape.
A street lamp sticks from the ground as if a beacon of hope; the Tower of Babel itself before God struck it down. It is in poor condition, but he pays this no mind and leaps with outstretched arms to grasp the jutted metal sticking out of the frame. He pulls himself up with commendable body strength, and proceeds to rest on a horizontal pole meters higher, but further away from the ground.
Then, and only then does he allow himself to look at his pursuers.
Five-legged mutts paw at the base of the stature, flinging their bodies violently into the flimsy material, causing it to waver in the air. They begin to use their hind legs for leverage and velocity, biting inches away from the boy’s limp dangling feet. He does not flinch. He merely looks down, observing their crooked teeth as he observed most he came into contact with.
His slanted discolored eyes are piercing in the crisp night, the eyes of a hunter who is always watching, plotting each move carefully, yes, but always watching.
He can see their crimson irises glow under moonlight in mounting desperation.
He knows how they feel.
But he shows no sympathy or remorse for he knows that if properly armed, he’d be the one chasing them around. The pack had attacked so suddenly that he had no time to do anything but scramble to his feet. And run. No time but to separate from the dirt and bolt anywhere that was away.
The gods futiley try to loosen the pole from its roots, but it merely wobbles and nothing more. They snarl after excessive failed attempts before slumping away and eyeing the boy angrily.
He finds a faint trace of rare amusement well up and snarls back. It escapes him as to why he’d indulge in such a fruitless effort. He’s alive. Shouldn’t that be plenty enough to be happy about while living in this hellhole of a country? Often he finds otherwise.
He knows the pack is still close. With some extrasensory knowledge, he can smell the musk from matted fur. He loosens his muscles and prepares to descend to the ground.
