Saturday, January 13, 2007
No. No, no. Nonononono
He gasped dryly, flinging himself a good few inches off the ground. The hard dusty ground served as a reality breaker, bringing him back to the horror that he lived in.
For a minute, nothing made sense. Then he remembered.
Screams. Lots of them. He was stumbling, trying to escape like the rest of them, a thin long wail emerging from within his vicinity. No, that was him.
Trembling, he shifted his tattered clothing closer, grabbing his meagre belongings(a rusty canteen, a half chewed pop tart), scrambling onto his feet. He couldn't stay here any longer, not when they might still be behind him.
A vicious tug at his pants cuff. Not even looking, he screamed again and kicked blindly. He felt contact. A sudden surge of adrenaline fueled by fear caused him to jerk forward. He fell.
He tried hard to keep his sobs in.
He wasn't aware at first, no. His feet went on working, giving a horrible parody of cycling. When he came to his senses, he rolled on his back frantically, and in the process looked at what caught his pants.
Hunched, he grabbed a nearby wall and staggered, gulping in giant lungfuls of air noisily.
It was not one of them, for sure. If it was, he wouldn't be seeing it anyways. He stared at it in morbid terror, unable to tear away. A nearby scream twisted his head and he began to feel the bile rising in his throat. Not in sound of mind to deal with it at the moment, he got up and tore it off with his fingers. He ran.
Now he wasn't pumped with fear, the consequences came.
He had felt it, hadn't he? The long coil of wetness that had wrapped around his leg. It had protruding purple veins and a sickly look that was splashed with red and bumpy and wet and
he touched it
not to mention, it was pulsing slightly.
He pressed an arm against his stomach, a low moan travelling up from the pit of churning sickness that was his stomach. He quickly covered his mouth, trying to force the bile back, and then he realised his hands were caked in blood.
He couldn't hold back any longer.
He heaved and heaved but his stomach could give him nothing. Whimpering, he forced himself to stop.
Then he caught sight of a cell phone on the ground.
Immediately, hope began to shine its cruel pinpoint on him. Perhaps he could call someone, they would rescue him!
His hands were shaking uncontrollably, almost dropping the phone as a result.
With a smile on his face, he lifted the cell to his ear.
He gasped dryly, flinging himself a good few inches off the ground. The hard dusty ground served as a reality breaker, bringing him back to the horror that he lived in.
For a minute, nothing made sense. Then he remembered.
Screams. Lots of them. He was stumbling, trying to escape like the rest of them, a thin long wail emerging from within his vicinity. No, that was him.
Trembling, he shifted his tattered clothing closer, grabbing his meagre belongings(a rusty canteen, a half chewed pop tart), scrambling onto his feet. He couldn't stay here any longer, not when they might still be behind him.
A vicious tug at his pants cuff. Not even looking, he screamed again and kicked blindly. He felt contact. A sudden surge of adrenaline fueled by fear caused him to jerk forward. He fell.
He tried hard to keep his sobs in.
He wasn't aware at first, no. His feet went on working, giving a horrible parody of cycling. When he came to his senses, he rolled on his back frantically, and in the process looked at what caught his pants.
Hunched, he grabbed a nearby wall and staggered, gulping in giant lungfuls of air noisily.
It was not one of them, for sure. If it was, he wouldn't be seeing it anyways. He stared at it in morbid terror, unable to tear away. A nearby scream twisted his head and he began to feel the bile rising in his throat. Not in sound of mind to deal with it at the moment, he got up and tore it off with his fingers. He ran.
Now he wasn't pumped with fear, the consequences came.
He had felt it, hadn't he? The long coil of wetness that had wrapped around his leg. It had protruding purple veins and a sickly look that was splashed with red and bumpy and wet and
he touched it
not to mention, it was pulsing slightly.
He pressed an arm against his stomach, a low moan travelling up from the pit of churning sickness that was his stomach. He quickly covered his mouth, trying to force the bile back, and then he realised his hands were caked in blood.
He couldn't hold back any longer.
He heaved and heaved but his stomach could give him nothing. Whimpering, he forced himself to stop.
Then he caught sight of a cell phone on the ground.
Immediately, hope began to shine its cruel pinpoint on him. Perhaps he could call someone, they would rescue him!
His hands were shaking uncontrollably, almost dropping the phone as a result.
With a smile on his face, he lifted the cell to his ear.
Vital regions invaded at 8:32 PM.
