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titusnowlAnd in case you weren't entirely convinced that somehow today I was possessed by the ghost of a 13-year-old Goth girl, I also wrote
He thought he lost them when he doubled back, shooting through the narrow space between two rows of houses, the blood pounding in his ears. If he could get away now, find somewhere to hide, he could have their money in a week -- three days -- maybe tomorrow, and please God he'd never get himself into anything like this ever again, if only he got away.
He heard a loose stone skitter on the cobbled alley. He smacked into a wall -- not a wall. A body. the larger of the "trouble boys" who'd come to him to collect. The smaller must be behind him. A fist like a medium-sized boulder sent him sprawling backwards, against a real wall. His hands scrabbled uselessly at the bricks. He pleaded with his mouth until he ran out of words. Then he pleaded with his eyes. Neither seemed to work.
The smaller man said something that he could not hear over the pounding blood.
A shadow unspooled itself from against the far wall, became a moving figure, tall and trim. The smaller man went down beneath the shadow's hands. An instant of frozen shock enveloped the scene. Before he could make his own feet move to run away the shadow had risen again and turned toward the big man.
Three sharp cracks shattered the silence.
The air was blown out of him. It felt like he'd been hit with a bat. He put his hands to his chest, felt something warm and sticky. Good God, he'd been shot.
The shadow rose in front of him. He could not see its face.
"Did they get you, Roger?" Its voice was soft, drawling, cultured.
He blinked at it, tried to draw breath, to ask how it knew his name. It shushed him gently, like a child. Then arms were around him, supporting him, just as his knees gave out.
Darker shadows fell over his eyes. He was dimly aware of a pricking in his neck, of a growing lassitude and a calm certainty that everything was fine, just lovely, and he should simply relax and go to sleep.
The voice said his name again, in his head, not in his ear. Something warm was thrust between his teeth. He bit down almost instinctively. The voice in his head urged him to drink. He obeyed almost instinctively.
Time passed. Instantly, eternally, untold aeons in a moment.
The arms were gone. The teeth in his throat were gone. The wrist - it had been a wrist - in his mouth was gone. He was alone on the cobblestones. He hurt, horribly. He was dying.
"Not alone," said the voice, aloud.
He clutched for it. A hand took his and held it firmly. "You'll feel better soon, old boy," it said in that gently soothing tone.
More time passed.
The pain left him. The world was silent. Perhaps he was dead now. But no - he could hear things after all. Far away a car door slammed, footsteps went up stairs. Something rustled in a trash can. He no longer heard the blood pounding in his ears.
He opened his eyes. He could see, as if it were daytime. The shadow took form: a man of perhaps thirty, clad all in shades of grey, with dark hair and hypnotic blue eyes in a pale, handsome face. It was sitting on the cobblestones with its knees drawn up and its arms resting loosely on the knees. Its face wore a dreamy, slightly mocking smile.
"Hello," it said. "I told you so. You can always trust old Uncle Simon for these small pieces of advice."
He thought he lost them when he doubled back, shooting through the narrow space between two rows of houses, the blood pounding in his ears. If he could get away now, find somewhere to hide, he could have their money in a week -- three days -- maybe tomorrow, and please God he'd never get himself into anything like this ever again, if only he got away.
He heard a loose stone skitter on the cobbled alley. He smacked into a wall -- not a wall. A body. the larger of the "trouble boys" who'd come to him to collect. The smaller must be behind him. A fist like a medium-sized boulder sent him sprawling backwards, against a real wall. His hands scrabbled uselessly at the bricks. He pleaded with his mouth until he ran out of words. Then he pleaded with his eyes. Neither seemed to work.
The smaller man said something that he could not hear over the pounding blood.
A shadow unspooled itself from against the far wall, became a moving figure, tall and trim. The smaller man went down beneath the shadow's hands. An instant of frozen shock enveloped the scene. Before he could make his own feet move to run away the shadow had risen again and turned toward the big man.
Three sharp cracks shattered the silence.
The air was blown out of him. It felt like he'd been hit with a bat. He put his hands to his chest, felt something warm and sticky. Good God, he'd been shot.
The shadow rose in front of him. He could not see its face.
"Did they get you, Roger?" Its voice was soft, drawling, cultured.
He blinked at it, tried to draw breath, to ask how it knew his name. It shushed him gently, like a child. Then arms were around him, supporting him, just as his knees gave out.
Darker shadows fell over his eyes. He was dimly aware of a pricking in his neck, of a growing lassitude and a calm certainty that everything was fine, just lovely, and he should simply relax and go to sleep.
The voice said his name again, in his head, not in his ear. Something warm was thrust between his teeth. He bit down almost instinctively. The voice in his head urged him to drink. He obeyed almost instinctively.
Time passed. Instantly, eternally, untold aeons in a moment.
The arms were gone. The teeth in his throat were gone. The wrist - it had been a wrist - in his mouth was gone. He was alone on the cobblestones. He hurt, horribly. He was dying.
"Not alone," said the voice, aloud.
He clutched for it. A hand took his and held it firmly. "You'll feel better soon, old boy," it said in that gently soothing tone.
More time passed.
The pain left him. The world was silent. Perhaps he was dead now. But no - he could hear things after all. Far away a car door slammed, footsteps went up stairs. Something rustled in a trash can. He no longer heard the blood pounding in his ears.
He opened his eyes. He could see, as if it were daytime. The shadow took form: a man of perhaps thirty, clad all in shades of grey, with dark hair and hypnotic blue eyes in a pale, handsome face. It was sitting on the cobblestones with its knees drawn up and its arms resting loosely on the knees. Its face wore a dreamy, slightly mocking smile.
"Hello," it said. "I told you so. You can always trust old Uncle Simon for these small pieces of advice."
