He hates the night
During the day, he’s busy and occupied and outward. But
during the night , there is nothing but reflection, all the guards come down
and then they start the hunt. First, in the shadows, they watch his every move.
He can hear them hiding, feel their piercing eyes. He can sense their
breathing. They climb the walls, all the while their tales sway, enticed and
hypnotic. They simper, hiss, and click to one another about the parts of him
they’ll each claim. They no longer try to stalk stealthily: at this point they
know he senses them and they know that he doesn’t stand a chance. Serrated scales scrape the stucco walls, he
whips his head to the right, squinting in the hopes that his eyes will find a
figure in the nothingness. Webbed talons brush the roof in an antagonizing
cadence. His eyes dart to the ceiling, frantically searching for the ominous
threat that looms overhead. Clenching the arm chairs, he tries to steady his
breathing, terrified that his anxious heaving will conceal the sounds of the
lurking predators. He’s completely surrounded by faceless monsters, each of
their movements, growls, and sounds contribute to his ever growing and immutable
fear. He presses himself farther into the couch, the friction making the
leather creak. His fear, mixed with unsteady breath has done nothing but wet
their appetite. They cackle, grunt, screech, and whine in every direction. It
grows louder and louder, until he can hardly hear himself think. The more he
strains his gaze, the more his head throbs and throbs. His heart is beating in
his throat, he can no longer breathe. He closes his eyes, inhales to scream and
then…
Silence.
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