Demon's Run

Prologue

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. The incessant mechanical blaring broke the pale man's sleep.
The ceaseless droning drilled into his head like a hot metal piercing. He stirred from his slumber and raised a wasted, frail arm to silence the alarm. He turned his greying face over on the pillow to face the nightstand, forcing his eyes open in the darkened room. He sighed, for the monotony of these mornings were all too familiar to him. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he turned onto his back to greet the sagging ceiling.
A thin sliver of sunlight pierced the room where he had drawn the curtains incompletely the night before. Dust now danced freely in the yellow wedge of light, inviting the man to join their joyful morning prayer. He sighed once more, lifted his bony torso onto his elbow, and peeled the thin, faded sheets from his body. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he breathed the stale air in deeply and cupped his face in his hands. He collected his thoughts in the small room.
The man pushed himself up from the thin mattress and stood, stretching his arms high above his head. He yawned as he stretched, presenting his tired body to the bare room. The worn floorboards groaned as he turned towards the bed and slowly sank to the floor. He kneeled there, and paused for a moment, before he clasped his knobbly hands together and rested his wrists on the bed.
Releasing the air slowly from his lungs as he exhaled, he glanced at the floor, then lifted his head high, stretching his neck as he greeted the ceiling for the second time today. The man closed his eyes, and began his prayer.

"Please, my love," he began in his dry, raspy voice. The man cleared his throat to continue.

"Please. Be kind today.
Listen not to the dark men, when they scratch at your door for a piece of your core.
Listen not to the howling, nor the sobbing, nor the tears of the frightened women.
Listen not to the hatred and intolerance of the angry folk, for you know they are only lost children.
Do not lose your way today.
Fall not from the vines where the glowing trees grow tall.
Please, I beg only this of you.
Fall not off the path to the kingdom, where the dragons are fierce and the enemies strong.
Listen only to your core. Where does your core lie today?
You must do your best. For this, I can only pray.
Please, my love."

The man ended his prayer and rose from his place.

Stretching the thin cotton over his bed and shaking the sheets into place, he made his bed and walked to the window. He threw the curtains open, saturating the barren room with yellow light. He grimaced as the light stabbed his eyes, yawned once more, and crossed the room to where the cramped, beaten, and crumbling wardrobe stood. The hinges squeaked as he swung open the right door, revealing five coat-hangers each bearing the same dark, faded, discoloured suit jacket and pants. Beautifully-crafted black dress shoes that once would have dazzled even in the dimly lit room, now lay scuffed and tired, sitting waiting on the bottom of the wardrobe. A collection of once brightly-coloured ties hung limp, as in collective suicide, from the rail. The man removed the first coat-hanger from its place, laying the jacket and pants on top of his bed. The old man turned back to the wardrobe and opened the left door, where five white shirts lay waiting, each carefully folded and piled atop a shelf. A small bundle of socks were roughly paired, and on a shelf below.

The man dressed quickly, suddenly conscious of the time, for he knew she would wake soon. He had no need to check the cracked mirror in the wardrobe – he knew exactly how he looked.