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The suits. by Karl Cross
SUMMARY: Unedited but will be edited soon. The blue is drawing it's agents.
The board will soon be set.
He knows they're out there, he can hear the foot steps nearing his door step and all the while he's thinking; need to get out of here. And that's true enough but where? They've chased him this far and they'll chase him further. He knows they'll chase him till he or they die. His finger's twitch slightly as he pushes back the edge of the thick black curtain and that's when he spots one of them, coming up the stairs just across the way. They're near; he didn't need to see the rest to know they were closer, perhaps even closer than the one he could see. It didn't matter what got in their way. Doors, walls, windows and whatever else became an obstacle to them was easily surpassed by whatever sinister means were at their disposal. This won't be his last escape from them. He's done it countless times before, except this does feel different.
As he's trying to escape everything becomes frantic and blurred. He can remember opening the door and tearing outwards making for the opposite stairs but then it hits him. Just between the shoulder blades and it's a small thing but enough. As the blood spills out of a small wound no bigger than a coin his legs give way and he topples downwards. His last thought as he smacks against the cold hard concrete is one not of regret but of hope for he isn't the last and she's out there somewhere. . . .
Lucy practically sprang up. Her body went stiff and was remindful of a startled cat. Only she wasn't ready to strike, hissing madly and bearing fangs. A lifetime of being struck had left her unable to strike. When people told Lucy whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger, she wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. The only thing her suffering had done to her was slowly eradicate everything that made her strong.
Time had done the rest of the damage. Rotting her defences and allowing her bitterness and pain to swallow her. The decay had started in earnest 7 years ago.
When her father first laid his hands on her. When he'd broken the first part of her. The first of many. She thought of her self as a rag doll now. A tattered old rag doll.
But that's not what formed the cold sweat that dripped down her face like tears.
Neither was it the concern that made her muddy green eyes that sparkled even in the darkness waver.
Not another one
Getting to her feet she tried to forget what she'd just witnessed for the tenth time in as many nights but how could she? So vivid and real she swore she could still touch it now as it echoed through her memories. Nightmares almost more tangible and concrete than the reality they mirrored. The kind of haunting visions that made you doubt the world you woke up to. How could two separate things feel so similar?
She looked over the room and found it just as empty and dark as she had last night and the night before for that. Strangely enough though this was how she liked it.
Lucy believed that light had little purpose other than revealing the monsters and the scars. It was better to let them devour you in the dark than turn on the light and have to deal with them.