Between ensuring he froze on for as long as he could, he puled as he searchingly tried to make out the figures closing in. Two. Maybe more. His suppressed tearful breathing, quietly tick-toking Casio and pounding heart was all the sussuration there was. A rickety hideout made comfortable by the evening darkness is what currently immured him from the approaching savagery. Moments ago, he was the sole furtive member of an audience until one of the performers sensed the presence of uninvited company. Then he took off. He knew they knew he knew. And now they were here. Somewhere. Silhouettes part of the young night. They were not here to kill to him but to ensure his death was uninterrupted.

Whoever held the blade that had slit his wrist as he fled the scene with the wriggling bag was an expert. That strike waned his life with every unnoticed drop of red life. The same strike had given the poor gadabout one more assumption; there was life in hiding. A distant green light flickered. Life outside his nightmare of bad luck bustled on. His pursuers stopped. Like hunters counting down the seconds until the animal lost to death. Then a gloved hand touched him. He died the hundredth time.

Further exsanguination. More darkness…

Image

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