Stab a Dagger Down the Middle

Slatescale (Chapter 2:1)*

The night air fills my lungs, and the moon beams its luminous, white rays at me. My dim gray skin and grapefruit hair blend with the other dark colors of the night. The stars twinkle, forcibly stuffing eagerness and hope into my gut so it overloads, and it causes my body to shake with delight. My smile is ever growing like the chill arousing goosebumps on my covered arms.

I calmly stroll down the stone paths, and silence echoes through my soul. My fingers rub my shaven chin, reminding me of a note Ten left me like an idiot. After I shaved my stubble, cut my mustache shorter, and finished up with our typical grooming, I found a letter he left the next time I took over.

The paper stated, "Asshole! What did you do? You shaved the stubble from my chin! I wanted to grow it out and try a beard! Bastard! Zero-One, we're growing it out."

I don't wish to grow it out. Fuzz on my face feels odd. On the other hand, Ten will continue to harangue me about this little matter. But Ten can't do much about this, and I can simply rip apart these notes. But he may take this too far like he has in the past. Last time I didn't listen, we were in the forest, and he got to our food supply, dumping it all into a hole in the ground and burying it. Digging it up was a hassle, but I didn't wish to hunt for more. That's a larger hassle.

I suppose I should allow it to grow out. He'll realize it's a mistake soon after. Besides, that's the least important happening currently. I've only got twenty-one minutes to claim the pleasurable sense of freedom I'm after.

A taste of freedom will be grand. So, my pace quickens, and I reach the edge of town. The buildings stop where an old stone wall emerges from the paths. Behind, a thick forest sits, and I can hear the chirps of crickets and hoots of owls from here. The oak trees are deep green, and the midnight sky causes the trucks to have a sort of blue luminescence.

Part of the wall is smashed open, so it must be a hot spot for thinkers of the night. Those poor souls who need somewhere to go when home life is stressful or they've dealt with a poisonous romance. Or those who wish to rebel against caring parents. Worst of all, they could be those bastards who push around others and complain about their own pathetic lives that spark bloodlust in those they shove to the dirt.

If I see tears, it's someone like me. If I spot alcohol or another human of the opposite sex, it's my freedom. A taste of freedom will be grand.

With my innocent grin, I walk through the broken wall, peering from side to side. It's too dark to make out much. I better listen. My ears hone into their surroundings, and a cluttered mess drags from eardrum to eardrum before leaving my agonized skull. Too much sound floats around.

Bugs humming, leaves rustling, a howl of the wind; it's all in the way of the sound of humans... unless one isn't here. I hope one is.

I take a few steps out, glancing in both directions. Yes, it's too dark. I can only make out objects I know, and it's merely a rough border then. It's time to listen closer.

I draw in a few breaths of air, closing my eyes while every sense feels like the color black. Everything seems still, and my heart throbs in my chest. With a gulp of my spit, I focus on my surroundings, and I pick up a sound. It's drinking. Alcohol, perhaps? Hopefully, so I can have the taste of freedom I seek.

My eyelashes flutter while I squint in the darkness. The sips came from the left, so I start walking in that direction, the leaves and twigs beneath my feet crunching like the spines of mice.

Finally, I see a silhouette sitting on a fungi-covered stump, a bottle of obvious booze in its slender hands. The size tells me this must be an older teenager; it's someone anywhere between sixteen and eighteen.