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Shallow and quick breaths. He gasps and gulps the air greedily, way too greedily. It is as if he had never breathe before; as if it had been forbidden for him to inhale oxygen and his body was taking in as much of the gas as it could ever for it might be its last time to do so. His body, every inch of it, is covered in sweat. He couldn't feel anything. Not of the clothing sticking in his skin as if being glued. Not of the huge gaping pain on his abdomen which will consequently strip him off his life. Not of the metallic stench he is so familiar with. (Then again, perhaps his familiarity with the substance which rendered his immunity.) He doesn't know how many miles he had run. He just ran and ran clumsily ever so, running into some people in his way. He never stopped, not even once, not until every single muscle in his body ache. He doesn't even care where he is right now. All that matters is he had escaped, from whatever he was escaping from. He doesn't even remember now. He tries not to. He doesn't want to. After all, it wasn't his fault. Not at all. He's convinced of that. Or is he? No. It is your fault. Something in the back of his mind whispers. This is not a lie, though, he acknowledges. He's one of the important triggers to the incident. Heck, who is he kidding-he is the main key to what had happened. Do you realise what you just did? What had he done? What? What exactly? The thing inside him snorts, Isn't it obvious? You just did the exact thing I would do. Something a saint like you won't do. To put it simply: You just bit the hand that fed you. The sentence calms him down. He's genuinely surprised with the effect of the words have on him and much more with the magnitude of said effect. He scoffs back in response, he doesn't care what the thing says anymore, it doesn't matter. He slumps down from his awkward posture and positions himself so that he's more in a state of what will be satisfiable at the moment. The usage of the word 'comfortable' is highly inappropriate, really. Slowly, with his trembling hand, he experimentally grazes his wounded area and feels his naked muscles: texture which is too soft and too wet. He wants to scream from the sharp pain from such a light brush but couldn't do so. He soon realises that if this red keeps gushing out, he will finally be white. Maybe, just maybe, all those sins and covetous acts he's done will be cleansed. He chuckles slightly at the irony. He doesn't even believe in any deities, not even with all his ecclesiastical years as a living being, especially not when the source of religious teachings are those lowlife people. They disgust him. They always did, always do, and will always do. And you always sided with them. Yes he did, he always did even if he knows what he feels is genuine abhorrence. His logic has always been on control all this time, perhaps that's why. His stupidity amuses himself. How could he ever stand such absurdity for such a long period of time? He doesn't know. It is hilarious. If his ribs aren't threatening to puncture out of his torso, he is sure he'll be laughing. Loud maniac continuous cackles. In his condition though, a tired smirk is sufficient. He could laugh later, maybe. After this darkness lets him go, maybe. Labels: Story |