The Boy and the Beast

24| insurgent

"Ally," my mom screams from the kitchen.

I pull my attention away from the laptop screen, but my fingers dance across the keys fluently. It's like my hands have a nerve system of their own, controlled by their own thoughts and swelled by their own overthinking. Not working themselves to death per se, but I don't know how I can focus on two different things on the same time. It's a discrepancy.

A mystery.

"Go look for Peyton, would you?" She continues. "She's out somewhere on the farm."

I look back at my fingers, but they won't stop typing, not even if I try to resist. They don't even lift from the surface of the keyboard, they just glide across the corrugated plastic without stopping before pressing the next key.

I try to pull my fingers away from the plastic, but it's like a small taser touches the tips of my fingers if I let go. I groan, trying to fixate my focus on something else.

If I focus on something else, the shock won't hurt as much.

I tip my fingertips off the keyboard, sending an entire transversal shock wave through my body. I direct the pain by clenching my teeth, but instead I get a rustic taste of metal in the back of my mouth. 

At least I managed to scythe my fingers from the keyboard, but it doesn't help that my finger tips are scratched. The skin is torn off cleanly, but no blood oozes from the acute wound.

Another weird thing.

I get up and grab nothing but myself to go look for the dog. I don't want her to dangle from the fence, like all the other dogs we owned.

Other than the heavy, charcoal clouds daring to touch the tip of the farmhouse's roof, the farm is barren. The trees are fruitless, the fields are employee-less and even the ground is without any insects. There's usually an overflow of ants and anything else with more than four legs.

The vacancy of the premises makes me wonder if my dog is anywhere. Maybe she disappeared too? Just like the ants.

But I hear her barking; frantically. You can hear when a little puppy is in distress and currently, she's the epitome of a panic attack. I follow the barks she leaves like a trail of bread crumbs, eventually leading me to a blackened sky rupturing with water like a shower head around the waterfall.

She's at the top of the cliff.

I rush to catch her, because it looks as if she's one flinch from running away. Her tail flails at my appearance at the top of the cliff, whining in excitement at me. I kneel down and pat her, praising her with kisses. Her white fur is stained with mud and her nose is dry.

Maybe she's sick?

The undeniable abundance of attention I plastered on her is stolen away from her the moment when I hear something behind us.

A obstinate flood, a tsunami-like abundance of water is stampeding our way like an insurgent. I can count all the milliseconds the water calmly crashes over everything in speeds of a train into a bare body.

My mind cannot comprehend the velocity and speed it's rushing towards us, and neither distance.

I grab Peyton and press her to my chest before I leap into the clear pool.