Well, that wasn’t strictly true.
He looked at the watch in his hand. He wasn’t even sure why he held it so tightly, protected it, or even had it in the first place.
He wanted to hate it, to direct his anger and pain at it, but he only felt curiosity and resolve, like it was a puzzle he needed to answer.
Syril carefully sat down in a clean section amongst the rubble of the room, his knees ached, and exhaustion littered his body. The watch’s carved surface left a faint impression on his hand as he finally let it go.
Despite the large amount of blood that coated his hand, the watch still gleamed a clean, polished gold. He lifted it, turning it to study the carvings covering its surface; its golden backing was accentuated by a silver band that ran its circumference, enclosing a carving of runes that Syril did not recognise.
Opening the watch offered no more clarity; its inside was as clean as its exterior, the face was a polished white, and the glass remained stainless. He noted the time as eight forty-three, only distantly aware that it had been nearly four hours since Seabright’s death.
He sighed; he’d had a lifetime of heartbreak in only four hours; he had to be cursed.
Syril felt his muscles stiffen; the defeat and exhaustion built through the evening were almost too much for him to manage. He had no clue where to go, what to do, or who to trust anymore.
Frustrated, he went to close the watch; any answers he’d hoped to garnish were non-existent, but an etching on the inside of the casing caught his attention.
“Run”
What did that mean; Syril was sure there had been no engraving when he had looked at it minutes ago, but there it was, clear as day.
And then it was gone, as quickly as it had appeared, disappearing in a burning red glow.
Footsteps on the hallway’s hardwood floors ripped his attention.
They were loud, and they were heavy, and they were coming this way.
He needed an out, and he needed one now. He scanned the room; the only door out would lead him to whoever was coming his way.
The window.
It was already broken, just begging for him to escape through it.
He hurried towards it, taking care to cause as little noise as possible as he removed his jacket and used it to protect himself from the shards protruding around the window seal.
There was a distinct crunch under his foot as he stepped on the strewn shards of glass on the office’s floor. He held his breath.
“He’s in here!” the deep angry voice of a man called from the hallway. Heavy boots and shouting echoed as they sprinted towards the study.
Abandoning all caution, Syril leapt through the window into the darkened alley, losing his footing briefly as he landed on the hardened concrete.
Hoping the darkness would conceal his retreating form, he ran towards the street as fast as his legs would take him. He had no clue where to go or what he was running from, but that had never stopped him before.
He ran down the alley, the warm glow of the illuminated street ahead of him his only guidance as he avoided piles of trash, discarded bottles, and boxes. In no time, Syril had emerged into the street, the yellow lamps above him dutifully revealing a single blackened van that took perch out the front of his house, its windscreen facing him.
He, albeit briefly, hoped that the driver hadn’t seen him, surely the universe owed him this small favour - but the van’s sudden lurch forward quenched any hope of that reality.
He was running before he had time to register the van’s headlights flooding the street or its roaring engine getting progressively louder.
He took a left at the end of the road, using his momentum to throw a trash can into the van’s path; it swerved around it with minimal difficulty and continued its annoying habit of getting closer to him. He glanced back; it was so close he could see the bulky silhouettes of the two occupants through the darkened windows; they were intimidatingly large, and he doubted they were chasing him to invite him out to brunch.
Ok, he needed a game plan, and he needed one now. He frantically looked around the empty street; tightly packed and newly constructed houses stood side by side for as far as Syril could see – their fronts all an ugly shade of beige and designed to cover as little space as possible. His heart pounded as his desperate and hopeless situation was bare in front of him.
The van was beside him, its occupants clearly visible as it lurched forward to cut him off.
Syril suddenly changed directions, dashing to the opposite side of the street before the van had an opportunity to react. Syril barely thought his plan through; it was poor, and honestly, it may even be stupid – but it was better than lying dead in the street.
He ran directly towards the nearest house, leaping the fence with a grace that he was too exhausted to be shocked about. He sprinted towards the front door, turning his shoulder so it would take the brunt of the blow. He roared as he collided with the door, the force of it knocking him to the ground, but the door remained closed.
“COME ON!” Syril roared to the sky, picking himself up from the ground, pain erupting through his broken shoulder.
He heard a car reversing in the distance, and white-hot panic ran through him like liquid fire.
The click of a lock stirred his attention, the now severely damaged door swung open, and a frightened-looking older lady in a floral dressing gown stood defiantly in front of Syril. Her hands were gripped so tightly around a metallic pipe that Syril half expected it to shatter.
“Who are you!?” the lady screamed, frightened yet obstinate. She glanced down at the shoulder-shaped hole indented into the door, “MY DOOR!”
Comments (0)
See all