0
Flight
Posted by ~jon~
on
1:28 AM
in
stories
“Where it hurts most…..Where it hurts most”, the silky and ominous voice kept replaying in Abel’s head like a damaged tape-recorder. His legs and calf screamed out in violent retaliation to the punishing pace. A tempo that must not ease up. A little further, he willed them. Every movement of His body brought excruciating agony. With every draining step, His swiftness reduced in equal proportion. However, the damage was minimal. Just a laceration and not a puncture wound. Today, he is lucky. He would need more of it.
Thirteen paces behind, a man saw his quarry pass the evening market, through the arch and finally taking a left. A deadly mistake indeed on his quarry’s part. The man knew these parts of town like Santa knows his list. He cursed his lack of practice. However, he did not intend to be as charitable this time around. He vowed that his next shot will be his last.
A courtyard with high Victorian walls came into view. His lungs begged for air. Abel stopped and took in his surroundings. There were buildings on the right and a small shed on the left. In the center of it all, was a fountain with three statues of disfigured children, water spouting from their mouths. Their frail bodies, contorted in a way that resembled a three-headed gargoyle. He tore his eyes away from it, deeply disturbed. He managed to push that eerie image from his mind, barely. He knew that with only one entrance, it was essentially a jail. Knowing hiding here was not an option, he ran back the way he came, with all the speed a wounded and limping fox could marshal. As he turned the corner, a cloaked man sidestepped a pregnant lady, revealing a heinous grin that Stalin would be proud of. The only way forward now is back, back to the courtyard.
Excitement bubbled up within his guts. To him, the hunt was more important than the kill. It was his form of perverted art. Seeing his prey desperately struggling to avoid their impending doom was part of what makes him tick. It brought him unbridled joy, better than any prostitute can offer. He could smell their fear and desperation and that fueled him. They would beg, then struggle and then put up a meek defiance of their predetermined fate. But he would always decide the time and manner of their death. Always. This would not be any different. He is an artist and the Jericho 941F held tightly on his left palm is his paintbrush.
It was already evening. Orange light now bathed the building to the right, casting long looming shadows to the center of the courtyard, ever slowly creeping towards the fountain. The water itself shimmered and sparkled in the evening sun. A perfect setting for a masterpiece. His senses tingled with anticipation and excitement. He knew his prey was nearby. His eyes scanned the courtyard for any slight movement.
Up above, Abel hid in a small room on the highest floor. He knew if the pursuer found his position, the only way out was a fifty foot drop down to the dirty streets of Malaga. He knew his pursuer was here, silently hunting. He needed to know where he was in order to evade him. Slowly and silently, he crept up next to a window. He lifted the window pane to examine the situation. Down below, a silhouette was casted on the Victorian tiled floor. It would be the last mistake that he ever made.
Three thousand miles away, a spinster and her lover shared a bottle of wine under the moonlight.
Thirteen paces behind, a man saw his quarry pass the evening market, through the arch and finally taking a left. A deadly mistake indeed on his quarry’s part. The man knew these parts of town like Santa knows his list. He cursed his lack of practice. However, he did not intend to be as charitable this time around. He vowed that his next shot will be his last.
A courtyard with high Victorian walls came into view. His lungs begged for air. Abel stopped and took in his surroundings. There were buildings on the right and a small shed on the left. In the center of it all, was a fountain with three statues of disfigured children, water spouting from their mouths. Their frail bodies, contorted in a way that resembled a three-headed gargoyle. He tore his eyes away from it, deeply disturbed. He managed to push that eerie image from his mind, barely. He knew that with only one entrance, it was essentially a jail. Knowing hiding here was not an option, he ran back the way he came, with all the speed a wounded and limping fox could marshal. As he turned the corner, a cloaked man sidestepped a pregnant lady, revealing a heinous grin that Stalin would be proud of. The only way forward now is back, back to the courtyard.
Excitement bubbled up within his guts. To him, the hunt was more important than the kill. It was his form of perverted art. Seeing his prey desperately struggling to avoid their impending doom was part of what makes him tick. It brought him unbridled joy, better than any prostitute can offer. He could smell their fear and desperation and that fueled him. They would beg, then struggle and then put up a meek defiance of their predetermined fate. But he would always decide the time and manner of their death. Always. This would not be any different. He is an artist and the Jericho 941F held tightly on his left palm is his paintbrush.
It was already evening. Orange light now bathed the building to the right, casting long looming shadows to the center of the courtyard, ever slowly creeping towards the fountain. The water itself shimmered and sparkled in the evening sun. A perfect setting for a masterpiece. His senses tingled with anticipation and excitement. He knew his prey was nearby. His eyes scanned the courtyard for any slight movement.
Up above, Abel hid in a small room on the highest floor. He knew if the pursuer found his position, the only way out was a fifty foot drop down to the dirty streets of Malaga. He knew his pursuer was here, silently hunting. He needed to know where he was in order to evade him. Slowly and silently, he crept up next to a window. He lifted the window pane to examine the situation. Down below, a silhouette was casted on the Victorian tiled floor. It would be the last mistake that he ever made.
Three thousand miles away, a spinster and her lover shared a bottle of wine under the moonlight.
Post a Comment