Topic: Worlds of Grey

Lynched

Date: 2017-02-24 23:09 EST
Bars. Chains. Howling. Pain. Blood.
"You won't remember this."
Black curtains drawn. Nothingness.


It was the same every night. A flickering of images, distorted by the assortment of senses. Some felt too real to be a dream. While some were far too horrific that he sincerely hoped they weren't real. To wake in confusion, unknowing of what they were or what they meant. Covered in sweat, air torn away from his lungs by the crushing suffocation of fear.

What does this mean? What does any of this mean?

Years with no answers. Running from some invisible force that chased him like the rolling shadows of a tsunami. He still waited for the crashing impact, but it never came. It could be anyone, anything. He only hoped that whatever it was, it would never come. Not if those clips were in fact memories.

Those mornings, when the storms of fear passed and calmed the waters, he'd lay there. Tracing scars he had no memory of receiving. He'd feel the dull ache of some when the rough pads of his fingers ran over the sensitive tissue. The ones that were lifted from cuts made too deep, scars he doubted he'd ever lose.

Why?

More questions he never had answers to. If they were real, what did he do to deserve them? Did he deserve them? Was he a victim, or was it retaliation for some heinous act he'd committed? He'd had his fair share of blood on his calloused hands, aftermath of running from the Invisible.

Am I crazy?

A question he truly wished he had answers to. While some would say yes, a man running from nothing that he believed was something. Hiding, in a land where it wasn't necessary. Or... hadn't been.. necessary. The things he'd done to stay low. To survive. To move on. Maybe he was. Or maybe, the world was crazy.

What happens when the Invisible find me... if they're real?

Now, that. That was a question he wasn't so sure he wanted the answer to.

Lynched

Date: 2017-02-26 06:57 EST
January 13th, 2000
Ricaurte Province, Colombia
A Few Miles Outside of Villa de Leyva


Dark. Murky. Blank. Still.
"It's almost over now."
Then nothing.


Drip... Drip... Drip... The persistent and almost painfully slow pelting of water splashed against a tan surface, streaking lines over sharp angles caked with mud. Chinese Water Torture.. How that thought came to an otherwise blank mind was anyone's guess. Drip... Drip... Drip. Drip.

A bare chest, covered in lashes of mud and healing scars heaved in a gasp of breath. Inhale. Nostrils flared. Lips part to welcome air as a few droplets of water managed to find it's way in, splattering against a dry tongue. A twitch of fingers that scraped against the rough and dry ground, collecting dirt and pebbles between clenched fingers.

A particular droplet assaulted a closed eyelid, the impact causing a full-body twitch as if it was jolted with electricity. Exhale. A chest deflating, a gush of air staggering past lips in an uneven stream of heat to lace with cool air.

Inhale. Lashes fluttered, rapid and frantic like the wings of a butterfly trapped. Exhale. A steadier rush of air now. Orbs like sapphires surfaced behind long lash, flinching closed as another drop made it's assault. Inhale...


--

Pain. Blood. The clatter of metal.
"Stop moving."
Cold. Chills.



A roll of cool air contorted over flesh, tickling with frigid fingers. Tiny bumps lifted, making a smooth surface rough as it sparked life. Movement of muscle cracked drying mud. Nostrils flared. Inhale. The scent of a coming storm. Electric. Fresh. Fingers twitched.


Move.


A gasp for air, stronger this time. No butterfly wings fluttering, just wide sapphires staring upward. Lungs struggling, gasping, convulsing. Fingers clutched a chest struck with pain. A jolt of movement, muscles shifting. Bones popping, resetting. Contorting.


Pain. Immense pain.


Vertebrae rolling, cracking and moving. Hands, caked in mud, shifting. Russet hairs protruding, growing, forming. Growls, tearing, deepening.


Screaming.


Sapphires, flashing to ruby, then amber.


Humanity leaving.


An animal, preying... stalking.

Lynched

Date: 2017-02-26 09:54 EST
January 14th, 2000 -- Early Morning
Ricaurte Province, Colombia
Town of Villa de Leyva


Writhing. Struggling. Pleading.
"Son, are you alright?"
Bla--

No. That wasn't part of the dream. That was too close. Too real. Too loud. Even in the surreal realness of the nightmare, there was a distinct difference between feeling real and being real. The voice... where was it? Above him. No more than a couple feet.

"Son... are you okay? Who's blood is that?" A man's voice. Deep and rolling, like thunder in the distance but without the threat. It was calming, soothing. A touch of safety in otherwise unsafe worlds, a quiet promise that everything might be okay if he'd just...

"Can you open your eyes, boy?" The accent, it wasn't familiar to him. But it was different. Like a drawl rolling off a tongue. He wanted to open his eyes, to put a face to the voice and quell the mystery.

Heavy, so heavy...

"Son....son..." And like a wave at the beach, it was swept away from him while he laid there in the sand.



Early Afternoon



Inhale.

Butterfly wings fluttered, bringing those pools of cobalt to the surface and breaking through lids seemingly made of lead.

Exhale.

He blinked, a slow motion that seemed to take forever. A sandpaper tongue rolled over the roof of his mouth, sticking from dehydration as his fingers twitched. Thick lines of brow dove toward the bridge of his nose, wrinkling the tanned skin between in confusion.

Soft.

The surface he was laying on wasn't rough and digging into the sharp angles of his bones. It was comfortable. And for reasons unknown, it made him panic.

This isn't right.

Blood pumped from a rapidly beating heart and flooded sound into his ears. A chest that was more bone than flesh and muscle rose and deflated much too fast. His vision swam. His mouth watered. His eyes tried to focus but was left with grey blur as he couldn't seem to see straight in his panicked state.

This is wrong. It's... it's--

"Son, calm down. You're safe."

Inhale.

That soothing promise of the man's voice returned, making him look into a dark complexion and black eyes surrounded by whites much too bright. Brows furrowed in confusion as he looked at the man, dressed in black from his neck to his feet. A white strip cut the lines of his suit at the throat. Something dangled from his neck and the boy reached for it, clean fingers brushing over the soft wood of the symbol.

The man looked down to the necklace the boy touched, ran his thumb over. "That's a cross, son. Are you religious?"

That confused him. What was religion? Those brows soared low as sapphires met the eyes of the man and he summoned the strength to shake his head.

"That's okay, son. What's your name?"

Another shake of his head.

The man sighed, his own eyes lingering on the emaciated features of the boy's face. Lack of nutrition and God knows what else causing already narrow cheeks to sink in, the socks of his eyes seeming hollow and bruised. He nearly looked like a skeleton laying on that bed. A hand reached for the boy's arm, soothing and sympathetic in it's gentle touch.

"Son, my name's Father Santiago. You're safe now."

Exhale...

Lynched

Date: 2017-03-01 00:15 EST
January 23rd, 2000 -- Mid Day
Ricaurte Province, Colombia
Church of Villa de Leyva -- Central Square



Among the rows of pews with hands clasped and fingers interlocked in his lap, he sat. Staring heavily at the crucified Christ against the back wall. The gruesome display of Sacrifice. Blood, thorns and nails. He couldn't count the hours he'd sat there staring at the display with understanding escaping him. Why? What is the purpose?

Sapphires stared, contemplating and memorizing every line and detail of the statue. Eyes that were less bruised and sunk into his skull. Father Santiago had been doing his best to fill out the skeleton of a boy, keeping his diet rich to get him to gain weight. The boy had promised him with a silent nod to eat what was before him, to be gracious and humble to the offer.

If only he would speak.

It had been over a week since Santiago had taken the boy in. Not a word uttered from his lips, he'd even question if the boy had a tongue. He didn't understand the reason for his silence, though in the condition he was in, he could only assume: trauma. It was written in the angles of his face. A face far too young to look so haggard and worn down. In the scars that covered the boy's torso, now hidden by the white robes he'd been clothed in.

Do you know how to speak, son? He'd only stared blankly at the man until looking to his lap, giving him neither confirmation or denial. The man was patient, to the point that the boy didn't understand why he kept him around. The hospitality, the care. That understanding escaped him, too.

What is the purpose?




Afternoon


Hours of staring. Unhindered, relentless. Persistent and stubborn. Silent and contemplative.

It wasn't until the old Priest's movement's caught the boy's attention, a flicker of a gaze but nothing more. A quick return to his staring at the statue. Father Santiago moved along the bench where the boy sat next to the aisle. A tired grunt left him as he steadied his hands on the bench in front of them, lowering his old bones onto the pew bench. The lean back was slow, a folding of hands in his lap as he remained as quiet as the boy next to him.

"It's fascinating, isn't it?" The silence was broken by the soft words of the Priest.

The boy didn't understand. It showed in the furrow of his brows as he stared ahead.

"One man's sacrifice for the whole of his people," the man explained. "He bore our sins and paid for them Himself. Yet, he was innocent," his voice softened more as he turned his eyes to the boy. "He was a martyr, my boy. The true Sacrifice."

The boy still didn't understand. The natural brooding expression that always reflected on his features deepened to Father Santiago's explanation of the crucifixion. But... why? Words. Questions. They hung on the tip of his tongue yet he didn't find the voice to speak them.

"It's okay to not understand," the Priest said before chuckling. "That is the point of Faith, after all. To believe, even if you don't understand. It's not about knowing the answers, my boy-"

"Seth." A haunted whisper, a lone word. Yet the boy didn't take his eyes away from the man on the cross.

Santiago was silenced by that one word, his eyes staring at the boy. It was the first word he'd ever spoken since arriving to the Church. A small smile curled the wrinkled cheeks of the old man as he nodded once. "Seth." He didn't question it. Merely accepted it. "Seth it is," he sighed, turning his own eyes toward Christ.

Complacent with the single word spoke, Santiago allowed Seth the sanctuary of his silence for the rest of the evening.

Lynched

Date: 2017-03-07 05:14 EST
January 25th, 2000 - Early Morning
Ricaurte Province, Colombia
Church of Villa De Leyva



Beeping. Blurry faces. Lines.
"Just a little bit longer now."
Fade to black.



It was breakfast time. Santiago had said his grace while Seth sat there in silence, staring at his lap. He wasn't a man of belief. He didn't understand the point in thanking some unknown entity. What's the point? How do you even know it's there? He'd sat there while Santiago thanked this invisible man for the food, for blessing them. He'd furrowed his brows deeply when Santiago thanked God for Seth's recovery.

In the short time since Father Santiago had pulled the boy off the streets, he was already looking less like a decrepit skeleton and more like a human boy. The angles of his body and face had filled out more, remaining narrow but healthily so. Sleep, however, was a fickle ordeal for him. The dark circles around his eyes seemed reluctant to leave.

Instead of finding it strange how quickly Seth had recovered... he'd thanked God. It was an unfathomable idea to the boy.

"Amen," the Father said. Lifting his wrinkled forehead from clasped fingers, he peered across the table to Seth. "You may eat now."

Lifting his own head, he peered over to Santiago in his silence before reaching for his fork. A single nod was issued in understanding.

Breaking apart the bread with his fingers, the Father glanced fleetingly to Seth. The words spoken casually. "You still having trouble sleeping, Seth?"

The fork stilled for a brief moment. A flicker of a gaze to the Father. A single nod. He looked down to his plate, stabbing a piece of egg and bringing it to his mouth.

"Bad dreams or couldn't find comfort?" He glanced to Seth again, popping a piece of the bread into his mouth. He didn't stare at the boy while he ate.

Seth only shook his head and stabbed another piece of egg.

"Neither?" The old man raised a brow, speaking only when he finished chewing.

His brows furrowed deeply, swallowing the egg in his mouth yet the fork didn't move again. "I don't remember.." He muttered, that haunted tone seeming the be the only one he knew.

Seth had seemed to have found his tongue after telling his name in that church pew a couple days before. But they were still few and far in between. Santiago did his best not to look shocked every time it happened. "You don't remember what you dreamt about, son?"

Another shake of his head. Another bite of food. A lie.

"Hm," the man hummed. "Very well then. I won't hound you anymore," he chuckled softly, remaining silent for a long moment.

Seth himself was silent. Brows furrowed, intensely staring at his plate. Avoiding eye contact with Santiago. "I don't remember anything," he muttered his admittance.

Santiago tried to be polite, to not stare at the boy that seemed to squirm beneath another's gaze. But that admittance had him locking those dark eyes onto him. His own brows furrowed. "What do you mean, son?"

A long expulsion of air escaped Seth's lungs, his eyes remaining on the plate. He looked about ready to speak, but he couldn't find the words. He only shook his head.

Silence filled the room until it was almost too loud. Until they could hear their blood pumping in their ears and the sounds of people outside bustling about to begin their day. He didn't seem interested in explaining.

Sighing finally, Santiago looked down to his own plate. Perhaps collecting himself. Perhaps holding back his frustration. Another second of silence and he spoke. "We will work on it," he promised Seth. "But for now, you need to make sure your physical health is properly maintained before we work on the mental health. Eat your breakfast."

Nodding, he did.

Santiago gave one more lingering look to Seth before nodding himself. "I will pray for you tonight."

Seth frowned while chewing, keeping his chin tucked so the Father couldn't see it.

What is the purpose?

Lynched

Date: 2017-03-11 03:34 EST
January 29th, 2000 - Dawn
Ricaurte Province, Colombia
Church of Villa De Leyva



Distant laughter. Hushed whispers.
"Don't you have something better to do?"
A sigh. Then silence.



The figments of that morning's dreams had left him unsettled. Memories of them quickly fading as all dreams do once the mind became conscious of reality. They were distant echoes at this point, fuzzy and blurred at the edges. He couldn't tell if that was from waking or he'd dreamt them that way.

He'd woken early that morning. Moments before the sun started to break over the horizon and wash the desert with warm rays. Father Santiago was still asleep in the other room, able to be detected by the soft snoring from the old man through the door. Silently, Seth made his way through the resident's quarters. Through the curtains that bled into the Sanctuary. Further still through the nave and out the front doors.

Climbing down the first couple steps of the white washed steps of the church, his eyes drifted over the empty streets of the town. He often enjoyed the resolute moments before the town woke. The quiet. The stillness. It gave him moments to think without the distractions of voices outside of the windows, in the front of the church when Santiago had his services. The smells of those coming in for confessional or visits with the town's Father. While the church seemed to be many of the towns people's sanctuary, he was quickly finding that the silence was his.

Draped in the robes Santiago had given him, he folded himself onto the top step. It wasn't long before his eyes found a particular cobblestone to stare at. To focus on and let himself fall into the depths of his mind. Moments passed before he was a statue on those steps, still as he stared ahead.

His brows furrowed as he tried to recognize the voice that often invades his dreams. There was a sense of familiarity. A sense of dread that accompanied it. It instilled fear in him. Who is it? Why can't I remember? The muscle of his jaw ticked as he tried to search his memories. He could remember the sound of the man's voice. But he couldn't picture a face. It could be anyone. That thought brought a deep frown on his lips.

Shaking his head, he sighed. I'm just being paranoid.. Maybe there was an accident. It happens, right? I bumped my head and I can't remember anything. A subtle nod accompanied those thoughts. His meager attempt to reassure himself. But there was the pit in his stomach that told him he was just lying to himself.

His nose twitched to a scent that carried on the wind. One he couldn't remember having smelled in this town before. Why does it smell familiar? Brows sank low until they threatened to disappear into the dark shadows of his eye sockets, the result of getting no rest. Sapphire blue irises lifted to give a glance around but he couldn't locate where the scent was coming from. "Hm," he hummed.

He could feel the tension rising in his shoulders. Whatever his subconscious recognized with the scent put him on edge. Unsettled him. Made his heart race and his pulse jump. Run. His mind told him. Instincts he tried to fight as he somehow managed to still even further on those steps. It wasn't until the distinct sound of footsteps inside the church distracted him from what he'd been about to do.

Blinking rapidly, his eyes lifted and turned to the door behind him just as Father Santiago came out to the front steps. Remaining silent, he only nodded to the older man.

"I should be used to your early rising by now," the Father chuckled, shaking his head. Quiet for a moment, he stepped forward to stand beside the boy. Tucking his chin to look at him, he raised a brow. "Another nightmare, son?"

Seth shrugged. For whatever reason, his internal clock always had him waking at dawn. He had no understanding of it. Looking forward again, a scan of eyes over the quiet streets. Nothing but the soft wind that rustled the dust and sand on the cobblestones moved. It's still here...

Realizing a moment late that he'd been asked a question, he sighed. A single nod. Yes, he'd had another nightmare. There hadn't been a night yet where he didn't.

The Father sighed himself, reaching his hand out with a slight bend at the waist to squeeze the boy's shoulder reassuringly. "I think you should see someone," he suggested, his voice soft. "I have an associate that helps with those suffering from trauma," he wasn't sure. But one could assume. "I could call him and have him come to town." His hand pulled away from the boy's shoulder, hanging to his side.

Seth seemed to consider it for a moment, frowning with furrowed brows. Did he really want to know what had happened? Maybe they could help... Another sigh. Another nod.

Father Santiago smiled with the relief that came from the agreement. "Very well, I will give him a call this morning." Nodding himself, he turned toward the door but paused when it was opened. "Don't get too lost in that mind of yours, son. You'll miss breakfast." A soft knowing smile was given to Seth before he went back inside.

He lingered a few more moments on the front steps. The scent in the air was diluted now, as if whatever had came with it was gone. He wasn't sure what caused the pit in his stomach now.

The scent. Or finding out what those dreams meant.

Lynched

Date: 2017-03-11 04:10 EST
January 30th, 2000 - Mid Day
Ricaurte Province, Colombia
Church of Villa De Leyva




He'd regained his strength enough to the point that Father Santiago had allowed him to take on chores. Small things. Almost irrelevant but significant enough for Seth to feel as if he was paying back the Father somehow. For everything he'd done. For picking him up off the streets. For the food. For the help. For understanding. Seth liked to think he'd done it out of kindness, and not just out of duty of being a Priest.

Of course, he didn't voice any of that. But he'd put up a good argument with the old man. Really, it was just Santiago telling him he wasn't rested enough to take on chores. Seth had just stared at him with brows furrowed and a rather determined look on his face. He'd said nothing. Yet, it was the Father that caved first with a sigh and a request of only taking on small chores. As well as frequent breaks to not over exert himself. Seth had nodded his agreement.

There was no service today. Giving Seth the easy ability of sweeping the nave and Sanctuary of the dusty sand that accumulated from outside. Carried in by those of worship. It gave him something to focus on. Something that didn't involve reading a book he didn't understand or sitting in a church pew staring at a crucified statue.

The sharp repetitive brushing of straw on wood soothed his racing thoughts. The jittery fidgeting he'd started with his fingers these days. Nervousness of hearing back from Santiago's associate whom he'd tried to call the day before but was waiting for confirmation. What if it doesn't work? What if it's a waste of time?... What if it does work? That by far was the most intimidating question. If the man could get him to remember what Father Santiago theorized his mind was blocking out.

"Seth." The Father's voice rang through the nave from where he stood just before the podium.

The boy jumped, swiveling as he'd been too lost in himself to hear the man's entrance. Or even pick up his scent. He stared like a deer in the headlights as the broom clattered to the floor.

The man's hands lifted innocently, a gentle smile presented that crinkled his already wrinkled face. "Calm down, it's just me," he whispered before lowering his hands. He clasped his fingers together, staying put until the boy calmed down. "Dr. Rojas returned my phone call. He'll be here next week when his schedule is freed," he informed.

It took a moment for the muscles in his body to relax from the startle. For his breathing to regulate and the pounding in his chest to hush to a dull yet steady murmur. Nodding, he lowered his chin. "Thank you, Father." The effort Santiago was putting forth to help a near stranger was worth verbal gratitude.

"Your welcome, son." He nodded his head, looking across the floors with almost a look of surprise. "You've done well in here. I don't remember the last time the floors looked this clean," he chuckled, bringing that dark gaze back to Seth. "Would you care to take a break to pray with me, Seth?" His tone was soft, a far cry from nagging or pushing. A gentle offering. It was his purpose to help the people find their faith, after all.

Those brows furrowed deep as he lifted his chin to look at the priest. "Why?" His own soft question returned to the man as his arms crossed loosely over his chest.

The corner of the man's mouth lifted slightly. "For the upcoming meeting? That it will be success?" His head tilted, standing where he was. "For your health that's been getting better and better. There are plenty of reasons to pray, son. You don't have to ask for help to pray," he told him. "You can express gratitude for the thing's you've been given. For the blessings that come in many shapes and forms. No matter how small they may seem," he paused, letting it all sink in.

Confusion rang evident on Seth's angled features as he looked to the pews. I still don't see the purpose. "I don't have faith," he admitted. A hushed whisper, nearly haunting in tone.

Santiago was silent for a moment before he looked down and nodded. That smile was still displayed as he lifted his chin again. Instead of approaching faith, he attempted sound logic Seth might be able to understand. His hands unclasped, fingers splayed as he held his hands out on each side. "But what could it hurt, son?"

Seth stared at the priest for a long moment after that question. His lips twisted as he chewed on the pulp inside his lip, squinting at the man as he'd got him with just a few words. What could it hurt? Well... nothing.. really. What bad could really come from praying to something that wasn't there? False hope, came to his mind but he brushed it away. Did he even have it to begin with?

After a moment of silence, the two men just staring at each other, Seth finally nodded.

Lynched

Date: 2017-03-11 04:52 EST
February 3rd, 2000 - A Couple Hours Before Dawn
Ricaurte Province, Colombia
Church of Villa De Leyva




"You shouldn't have resisted."
Bland. No emotion.
Bloo-




No. That wasn't a part of the dream.

Drenched in cold sweat. Heart racing. Pulse jumping. Sapphire blues snapped open. Panting.

Blood.

His nose twitched. Inhale. Definitely blood. Where?

He sprang to his feet. Dizzy, wavering, teetering. Gasping for breath. Vision swimming, the edges darkening. He caught himself on the edge of the bed. No falling.

Panic.

The voice. He'd heard it. It was different than his dreams. It was harsher, deeper. Colder. Fear inducing in it's cold indifference. Familiar.

A twitch, a sniff. Blood. He looked down at himself, hands splaying over his stomach. It wasn't his. Dread. A pit in his stomach. Then nausea.

Move.

Breathing heavily from his nose, he rushed to the door. Swinging it wide, he followed the scent of blood. Across the hall. No... Panic.

"No..." A verbal plea, a choked whisper.

He rushed across the hall, swinging the door open with enough gusto for the door handle to slam into the wall.

No...

Inhaling through his mouth he stalked toward a laying form on the mattress covered with a white sheet.

That scent...

Through the mixture of blood was the lingering scent from a couple days ago. Familiar. Dread. Fear.

Swallowing hard, his legs carried him to where he didn't want to go.

Don't... Too late.

He'd reached the edge of the bunk where the form on the mattress laid. Stillness. No hint of a rising chest.

Seth's breath caught in his throat, whimpering an inhuman whine as he reached for the edge of the sheet.

Don't. I don't want to see...

His body betrayed his mind. With a flick of his wrist, the sight beneath the sheet made a yelp catch in his throat, muffled by a wretch as the scent grew stronger without a filter. Turning away, he stumbled to the waste bin next to the nightstand. Collapsing to his knees, he emptied his guts into the basket.

Tears escaped from the corners of eyes squeezed shut.

The scent.

The sight of Father Santiago's chest cavity torn apart into a mottled mess of a broken rib cage. His inner workings exposed to the air in a gruesome display of organs and blood.

The loss of a friend. His first and only friend he'd made since waking.

He wretched until he couldn't any longer, until his stomach was empty and the muscles of his abdomen and his own rib cage sang with pain from the effort.

Why? Who would do this?

Sitting back on his ankles, he forced his eyes to open. He didn't want to look again, and he didn't know what lead him to. Self punishment? That instinct to watch something horrific, like the inability to look away from a car accident?

Whatever the reason was, he looked.

Out of all the gruesome details of the display on that bed, Santiago's expression was the worst. A statue, a moment of silent screams that Seth couldn't recall hearing. His mouth contorted of pain, eyes widened with fear.

Why didn't I hear it?

Seth swiped his mouth and nose with his sleeve, forcing himself to stand even if his knees felt like collapsing all over again. He stared with glistening sapphires, lashes wet with tears.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, but he didn't know why.

Run, his mind told him.

This time, his feet listened as they started backing toward the door. Turning to face it, he paused. Still as a statue himself, he blinked. A frown curled the corners of his mouth as he looked over his shoulder again to the rosary on the nightstand.

The same rosary he'd seen the priest holding time and time again. In his hands, around his neck.

The priest had tried to give one to Seth, but he'd refused the symbol of faith.

He couldn't be any further from faith than this moment. For reasons he didn't understand, he returned to the nightstand to retrieve that wooden cross.

The beads jingled where it spilled over his hand, his thumb rubbing over the smooth wood like the first night he woke up in the church. Gritting his teeth, he pocketed the rosary and gave Santiago one final look as he backed out of the doorway.

Run.

He did.

Lynched

Date: 2017-03-13 05:00 EST
Take me back to nowhere
Shelter me
Until they find me
Till then they'll keep searchin'.
-- Destination Nowhere, Shaman's Harvest


April 11th, 2000 -- Afternoon
Dari?n Province, Panama
Yaviza



Days to weeks. Weeks to months. Sometimes man. Sometimes animal. Scavenging food, clothes. But somehow, he always managed to keep that rosary with him. There'd been a few moments where he'd thought he'd lost it, back tracking his path until he found that night's clothing and sure enough, found it among the pile. A minor setback. He had no destination to begin with.

Running. Never staying for more than a few hours, a night at most, in one place. Finding various places to sleep, but more often than not as an animal on the outskirts of towns and cities. Staying as far away from people as possible, only to breach and stalk the shadows to raid small stalls, scavenge the slim pickings available. Thieving and scavenging clothing from laundry lines in the backyards. None of which lasted long.

It wasn't until he reached the bridge that lead in to Yaviza after a long track through the wilderness, caked in mud and foliage. Brambles stuck to the pants he'd stolen nights ago, he'd lost track at this point. Stumbling across the bridge, legs weary from exhaustion and trembling from hunger. He managed to reach the edge of town before his knees collapsed on him, forcing him to his hands and knees on the dusty pavement of the side road.

His head hung between trembling arms holding himself up, even if just barely. Sapphire blues that weren't quite as bright these days closed, squeezing shut as he fought the desire to curl up on the side of the road there and sleep. His fingers now scraped with the road's surface curled against it, folding over the rosary that was wrapped around his hand and leaving round dents in his palm from the pressure. Peeling his eyes open, he stared at it for a long time, his thumb moving over the mostly smooth surface of the cross that was now riddled with minor scrapes from the journey.

Sighing, he folded his legs under him and staggered to his feet, teetering on the brink of losing his balance. His face was more haggard than ever, the health Father Santiago had helped him maintain was diminishing into something that looked like the wind could blow over. Yet, subtle compact muscle was building in it's place from the free running.

Looking ahead to the small town that hardly looked like civilization compared to others, it was a dream after the wild that he never thought he'd get out of miles back. Will power, even if forced, carried him along that road until the houses and stalls came within sight. He paused, seeing a stand selling local fruit as he felt his mouth water over his sandpaper tongue. His stomach shared the sentiments with a growl that was impressive even for him.

"Se?or," came a voice matching the tug on the side of his mud stained pants. "Se?or!"

Blinking, Seth's brows furrowed as he peered down to the small dark skinned child that was peering up at him with wide, curious eyes. Now that his attention was on the boy, the hand that had been tugging on his pant leg ceased and fell to his side. "Se?or, are you a skeleton?" he asked, the soft rolling of Spanish falling off his tongue in the wake of words. Words that Seth had somehow understood since Colombia. The boy looked no more than six, maybe seven years old. Wondrous amazement of the strange man that seemed to stand out among the townsfolk was evident in the child's eyes, peering up at him with no judgment or understanding of the terrible world they lived in.

For a moment, he envied the child.

"No," he said, shaking his head slowly as he peered down at the young boy. Though, perhaps to be more honest, his brows furrowed. "...Maybe." He couldn't remember the last time he took a good look at himself. For all he knew, he was one. Shaking his head, he turned away to leave until the soft steps of the child's feet walking over the dusty road hinted to him being followed.

"Se?or, what's your name?" Dark eyes peered up at him, unhindered by the dismissal of the tall man walking away from him. "I've never seen you before."

"Seth." His words were few and far in between, and at this point he wasn't sure why he even responded to the boy.

"My name is--" The boy started, just for the timing of his mother calling from the front yard had them both pausing and looking in her direction. The woman, holding a smaller child on her hip, waved to her son to return. The boy pouted, looking between his mother and Seth, indecisive on what to do next. "But.."

Locking eyes with the mother, there was that instinctive protectiveness in her eyes that he could see from even that distance. Distrust of the stranger invading their town, but almost concern for the 'skeleton man' the boy claimed he was. "Go," Seth whispered to the boy, lifting his chin toward his mother.

"But, Se?or..."

"No," he shook his head, offering a weak smile. "Listen to your mother." The boy opened his mouth to protest but he didn't wait to listen as he turned and walked away, clutching the rosary in his hand until it left an indent in his palm of the t-shaped cross.

Never again.