Zarkon
13th June 2005, 06:34 AM
[This was a quick assignment I did at the end of the term, and I'm very proud of it. I'm just looking to share it and for a little bit of feedback/opinions on the topic. Thanks in advance! ^_^ ]
19
Hal ran.
He ran as fast as he could, away from the lights and colors and the braying of hounds. He ran until his heart hammered in his burning chest and his legs had been cramping for what seemed like hours. Eventually, his body couldn’t take it anymore and he lost consciousness.
Hours later, as his heart was reduced to tiredly thumping against his ribs, he began to wake up, weakly leaning against a tree.
He could still hear the sirens.
Hal’s mind screamed with terror. A new surge of adrenaline shot through his body as he frantically scrambled through the bushes.
Hal had been relieved, four months earlier, when he had been transferred to Delphi Prison. The old prison had been torn down and re-built with a new modern security system. Even though the gleaming white building had all the appearances of a water-tight base, it was not. Delphi Prison held the record for the most successful prison escapes in 18 counties.
All the prisoners whispered it over their meals, cursed it on their breaths, screamed it in their dreams.
“Nineteen.”
“Nineteen. Nineteen. Nineteen!” the prison lights vibrated in rhythm, and the guards beat at it with their clubs.
Nineteen.
Hal tripped on a rock, flying headfirst into a tangle of leaves and mud. Blinded, he pushed himself off the ground and wiped his eyes, he was lying in front of an old foundation.
There were a lot of unfinished homes in the area surrounding Delphi Prison. It had been built around the turn of the century in a vastly populated area. Most families abandoned their homes when the prison was built, and homes deteriorated and rotted where they stood. Many still stood, stubbornly remaining after Delphi turned the cultured landscape into wild countryside.
The remains of this house was huge. The old foundation stretched out of sight, beneath the trees.
Hal picked himself up, willing his panicked heart to slow down. The sirens had long since retreated into the distance and he decided to rest in the undergrowth for a while.
He adjusted his orange jumpsuit around his shoulders, and loosened the broken chain about his leg. Trying to stretch his worn muscles, Hal began to pace the perimeter of the house. There were a few walls still standing inside the foundation, withstanding the scraggly trees that grew up through the cracks in the floors.
Suddenly, he noticed a door within one of these walls. He smirked. It looked almost normal—the wood was polished, it was clean of claw marks, wood scrapes and bird droppings. The shining crystal doorknob turned easily and the door opened before him.
Hal must have fainted. He came to in a light blue room. Picking himself up, he looked for the door that should have been behind him, but it wasn’t there. He placed his hands on the doily covered chair in front of him, and realized that his mother’s sitting room had changed very little since he had run away. What was different? The air was too still, Hal trembled, fearing his nightmares, breaking the silence that stood between him and the open windows. As he stepped towards them, he felt his foot sink through the rotting floorboards. The room grew darker.
Cursing, he violently pulled his leg from the wood, quickly crossing to the wall closest to the windows. He seized the windowsill with both hands and hurled his body through the opening, connecting with the open air as if it were a solid wall.
Screaming in frustration and pain, he clawed at the invisible surface until his fingers bled down the sky. Hands bloodied, he turned, and saw the shadow on the dark blue wall.
It was his mother, down to the curves of her sculptured hair and the bracelets on her wrists. She moved, and Hal noticed the knife in her right hand.
The knife he had used before he’d run away. Hal never liked his parents, and one day, during one of their arguments, he had snapped. Hal ran, as he did now, but he wasn’t fast enough. He was tried as an adult, given a life sentence and been hastily introduced, at the age of eighteen, to harsh prison life.
He found escape in the door to the kitchen. An evergreen tree partially blocked the old doorway, and he could see the forest behind it. His legs were sluggish and he seemed to run in slow motion. He pushed past the tree out of the room.
Bricks flew past him at astonishing speeds, covering up the opening he had run through. Four walls were soon fully formed, hurling themselves up just as he reached the inside. He was trapped again.
This time it was the old back room. Before he’d been caught after the double-murder. His life had no meaning, and he didn’t care what happened. The little girl had been in his way, and he’d disposed of her.
Now he could see her shadow as well, advancing against a wall, and he felt the broken glass enter his neck.
“This is not happening!” he screamed. Glass lodged into his skin, and blood dribbled down his chest.
He was thrown against the brick wall as terrified screams filled his mind. The little girl screamed, screamed, screamed! Clapping his hands to his ears, he had to make it quiet. She screamed, and Hal screamed with her, as he was pummeled from all sides like a punching bag.
Memories flashed through his brain. Her memories. A doll, a smiling face, the alphabet song, terror. As his body was assaulted on all sides and he sobbed in pain, he died with her fear and pain and the final vision of his enraged face.
Her death ceased the barrage so suddenly he dropped to all fours. A mangled body appeared beside him and he gasped for breath, his hair dripping blood—his blood, her blood--past his face.
“What is this place?”
The room was encompassed with blood. It dripped from all corners and the child’s dead body was drowning in it. Blood, blood, blood, his stomach reeled at the stench. A door loomed out of the corner of the room, seeping with the blood that had betrayed him.
Hal slowly moved towards it, sensing trees and mud and freedom on the other side of the slab of bloody wood.
He managed to pull it open, his hands aching with bruises and sliding on the wet. A new wing of the house was being built around him. Stairs were shaped out of rubble to his right, as a window slid into place. Again, he forced his body to run, down the twisted hallway, as the building bricks and wood raced to build the house around him. He discovered the basement, nearly tripping as he realized the floor was hurriedly forming beneath his bleeding feet. The hallway ended suddenly at a door. Screeching to a halt, and praying that it was an exit, he crossed to it and opened the door to the outside.
He was greeted by a graveyard.
Burial mounds covered up what little grass there was. A wickedly pointed fence ran around it, pulsating with death. Hal backed toward the door, and felt a blank wall behind him. Again, Hal was trapped.
He walked, painfully, around the mounds. Something glinted between the stems of grass near the fence, and he cautiously bent down to pick it up, wiping his red stained hands on his jumpsuit. It was a broken leg chain. Pieces of paper were tacked to the fence, papers he hadn’t noticed before. Wanted posters, with photographs of escapees from Delphi Prison. Hal turned toward the graves to count them.
“There are nineteen.”
An old man held a shovel, and began digging.
19
Hal ran.
He ran as fast as he could, away from the lights and colors and the braying of hounds. He ran until his heart hammered in his burning chest and his legs had been cramping for what seemed like hours. Eventually, his body couldn’t take it anymore and he lost consciousness.
Hours later, as his heart was reduced to tiredly thumping against his ribs, he began to wake up, weakly leaning against a tree.
He could still hear the sirens.
Hal’s mind screamed with terror. A new surge of adrenaline shot through his body as he frantically scrambled through the bushes.
Hal had been relieved, four months earlier, when he had been transferred to Delphi Prison. The old prison had been torn down and re-built with a new modern security system. Even though the gleaming white building had all the appearances of a water-tight base, it was not. Delphi Prison held the record for the most successful prison escapes in 18 counties.
All the prisoners whispered it over their meals, cursed it on their breaths, screamed it in their dreams.
“Nineteen.”
“Nineteen. Nineteen. Nineteen!” the prison lights vibrated in rhythm, and the guards beat at it with their clubs.
Nineteen.
Hal tripped on a rock, flying headfirst into a tangle of leaves and mud. Blinded, he pushed himself off the ground and wiped his eyes, he was lying in front of an old foundation.
There were a lot of unfinished homes in the area surrounding Delphi Prison. It had been built around the turn of the century in a vastly populated area. Most families abandoned their homes when the prison was built, and homes deteriorated and rotted where they stood. Many still stood, stubbornly remaining after Delphi turned the cultured landscape into wild countryside.
The remains of this house was huge. The old foundation stretched out of sight, beneath the trees.
Hal picked himself up, willing his panicked heart to slow down. The sirens had long since retreated into the distance and he decided to rest in the undergrowth for a while.
He adjusted his orange jumpsuit around his shoulders, and loosened the broken chain about his leg. Trying to stretch his worn muscles, Hal began to pace the perimeter of the house. There were a few walls still standing inside the foundation, withstanding the scraggly trees that grew up through the cracks in the floors.
Suddenly, he noticed a door within one of these walls. He smirked. It looked almost normal—the wood was polished, it was clean of claw marks, wood scrapes and bird droppings. The shining crystal doorknob turned easily and the door opened before him.
Hal must have fainted. He came to in a light blue room. Picking himself up, he looked for the door that should have been behind him, but it wasn’t there. He placed his hands on the doily covered chair in front of him, and realized that his mother’s sitting room had changed very little since he had run away. What was different? The air was too still, Hal trembled, fearing his nightmares, breaking the silence that stood between him and the open windows. As he stepped towards them, he felt his foot sink through the rotting floorboards. The room grew darker.
Cursing, he violently pulled his leg from the wood, quickly crossing to the wall closest to the windows. He seized the windowsill with both hands and hurled his body through the opening, connecting with the open air as if it were a solid wall.
Screaming in frustration and pain, he clawed at the invisible surface until his fingers bled down the sky. Hands bloodied, he turned, and saw the shadow on the dark blue wall.
It was his mother, down to the curves of her sculptured hair and the bracelets on her wrists. She moved, and Hal noticed the knife in her right hand.
The knife he had used before he’d run away. Hal never liked his parents, and one day, during one of their arguments, he had snapped. Hal ran, as he did now, but he wasn’t fast enough. He was tried as an adult, given a life sentence and been hastily introduced, at the age of eighteen, to harsh prison life.
He found escape in the door to the kitchen. An evergreen tree partially blocked the old doorway, and he could see the forest behind it. His legs were sluggish and he seemed to run in slow motion. He pushed past the tree out of the room.
Bricks flew past him at astonishing speeds, covering up the opening he had run through. Four walls were soon fully formed, hurling themselves up just as he reached the inside. He was trapped again.
This time it was the old back room. Before he’d been caught after the double-murder. His life had no meaning, and he didn’t care what happened. The little girl had been in his way, and he’d disposed of her.
Now he could see her shadow as well, advancing against a wall, and he felt the broken glass enter his neck.
“This is not happening!” he screamed. Glass lodged into his skin, and blood dribbled down his chest.
He was thrown against the brick wall as terrified screams filled his mind. The little girl screamed, screamed, screamed! Clapping his hands to his ears, he had to make it quiet. She screamed, and Hal screamed with her, as he was pummeled from all sides like a punching bag.
Memories flashed through his brain. Her memories. A doll, a smiling face, the alphabet song, terror. As his body was assaulted on all sides and he sobbed in pain, he died with her fear and pain and the final vision of his enraged face.
Her death ceased the barrage so suddenly he dropped to all fours. A mangled body appeared beside him and he gasped for breath, his hair dripping blood—his blood, her blood--past his face.
“What is this place?”
The room was encompassed with blood. It dripped from all corners and the child’s dead body was drowning in it. Blood, blood, blood, his stomach reeled at the stench. A door loomed out of the corner of the room, seeping with the blood that had betrayed him.
Hal slowly moved towards it, sensing trees and mud and freedom on the other side of the slab of bloody wood.
He managed to pull it open, his hands aching with bruises and sliding on the wet. A new wing of the house was being built around him. Stairs were shaped out of rubble to his right, as a window slid into place. Again, he forced his body to run, down the twisted hallway, as the building bricks and wood raced to build the house around him. He discovered the basement, nearly tripping as he realized the floor was hurriedly forming beneath his bleeding feet. The hallway ended suddenly at a door. Screeching to a halt, and praying that it was an exit, he crossed to it and opened the door to the outside.
He was greeted by a graveyard.
Burial mounds covered up what little grass there was. A wickedly pointed fence ran around it, pulsating with death. Hal backed toward the door, and felt a blank wall behind him. Again, Hal was trapped.
He walked, painfully, around the mounds. Something glinted between the stems of grass near the fence, and he cautiously bent down to pick it up, wiping his red stained hands on his jumpsuit. It was a broken leg chain. Pieces of paper were tacked to the fence, papers he hadn’t noticed before. Wanted posters, with photographs of escapees from Delphi Prison. Hal turned toward the graves to count them.
“There are nineteen.”
An old man held a shovel, and began digging.