Author: WolfletteMoon PM
A young man stands on a beach as he is hunted down like an animal. Not hugely angsty, but there is a little. More creepy than scary.Rated: Fiction T - English - Horror/Angst - Words: 900 - Reviews: 2 - Favs: 3 - Follows: 1 - Published: 12-10-09 - Status: Complete - id: 2750644
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This is just a bit of character development for a character I invented a few years ago and never really used until lately. I might turn this into a fic, if enough people seem interested, but only when I've finished one of the others, so for now it's a one-shot. Still, tell me what you think and if I should turn it into a story. And yes, this is a companion piece to 'Obsession'. And it is now spell checked.
The eerie silence and strange stillness gave the impression that, confined to the moonlit sands, time had slowed to a stand-still. Far off, the sea lapped softly over the silver streaked beach, only to be pulled back by the tide. Slowly, frighteningly, an unnatural fog rolled in, engulfing a solitary seagull that had sat perched on a log left behind from high tide. It crept further in the fog not seeming to stop, until it came to a sudden halt. It stopped at the feet of a young man, staring over the sea and dreaming of far-off lands. The fog slipped back a little, as though even the forces of nature were frightened of the form at its edges. It remained still, giving the impression that it as waiting.
He had never thought he would be stood there, looking over the black, lifeless waters with his head filled with childish dreams. There was a lot that he never saw coming. He had never expected to get caught, to get put in that cell. When it had happened, he had never expected to get out. He had not expected everything that had happened since. He most certainly had not expected to run. He wanted to go down fighting, yet he still ran. He wanted desperately to turn and face them, but he daren't. There was so much he wanted to do, but either couldn't, or wouldn't. He saw the lights in the woods at his back, and he wanted to chase them, to be the hunter again, but he wouldn't. For now he was the hunted.
Once, he had been the predator, not the prey. Ruthless, merciless, deadly. He hadn't been the strongest, but he was strong enough. He hadn't been the fastest, but he was fast enough. He hadn't been the smartest, and that was what had ended it for him. He hadn't been smart enough. They had been smarter.
He had always though himself cunning, and sly. That had been his thing, the one thing he had done best. He could exploit any loophole, get past any trap, outwit the best of the best. At least, he had thought so. And then they had won, they had caught him. And now they were hunting him, and he was running from them, barely a step ahead, feeling as though he had lost a part of himself. He was at the wrong end of the hunt. What was worse, he was losing.
They had called him crazy. He didn't mind. They had called him sick. He didn't mind that, either. What he did mind, was the way that they all looked down on him. They all seemed to think that they were better than him. They had thought that they could just lock him in a cage and throw away the key. They had stripped him of his power, his control, taken the one thing that he truly cared for from him. He would get it back soon enough. He would find a way. But first he had to find his old cunning. He had to grt back up the food chain. And then he would make them pay. He would make them all pay.
The wind blew a shimmering lock of jet black hair across his beautiful face, obscuring his vision. Ebony eyes darted nervously from side to side, searching intently for any sign that they were getting close. If he ran now he would surely give away his position. He still had enough of his old wit, and his cunning, to survive. Just enough to get by. But it wasn't enough to fight back, not yet. He hated to admit how much that place had broken him. He hated to admit that he was breakable, too. What he hated most, though, was how well they now knew it. And how badly they all wanted to break him again. To put him back in there. But there was no way he was going to let them.
Fox. Cunning, sly and often witty, just like his name suggested. But now he was being hunted, just like a fox. Running from the men with guns and their hounds, no less. He would run, and hide, and be forced out of his den again and again; that's what they thought. But no, he was really just waiting for a chance to bear his teeth. He wasn't really running, just dodging. At least, that's what he tried to convince himself. There was nothing else left but his pride. His pride which he would never let them brake. It would surely be the death of him, but also the death of a great many others. Because Fox Kennedy was not going down without a fight.
The voices came from the left, and so he ran right.