ficlets100 - number seven.
001. Guilt
002. New
003.Solitude
004. Content
005. Tale
006. Distort
007. Luxury
008. Listen
009. Party
010. Scent
011. Storm
012. Lessons
013.Apology
014. Relief
015. Breeze
016.Fading
017. Passion
018. Stay
019.Rain
020. Within
021.Dread
022.Revenge
023.Time
024.Perfect
025.Eyes
026.Bloom
027.Beginning
028. Bath
029. Object
030. Lost
031.Pride
032. Death
033 ( Read more... )
It’d come out of nowhere. He hadn’t even thought on it.
But now there were broken pieces of a white dish at the base of a wall, and he was backed into a corner, for-once steady hands holding out a shining kitchen knife - he couldn’t see anything but red, couldn’t think, only heard the ring of silence - narrowed blue eyes were stalking toward him, and someone was yelling, screaming, demanding to be let go, let it go, I’ll cut the ties, I’ll cut them, and hands appeared out of nowhere and Matt turned the knife on them.
There was a flash of red (red eyes? no), and he couldn’t move again; in this pause, though, someone else made an action. The corner was no longer something he’d backed himself into - he was shoved against it, an arm barred across his throat, and the knife clattered as noisily to the ground as the plate had shattered. His larynx was crushed on top of feeling hoarse, and for a good fifteen seconds (enough to suffocate if he was hyperventilating and he was hyperventilating) Matt couldn’t breathe, ( ... )
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Nights were the worst. Elie Wiesel came to mind, but Matt wasn't sure who Elie was, an artist or an author or a film producer or a horror maker, and so he thought how nights were the worst and thought only on that. They were the worst because they were the best, because they varied so much, because they meant so much. Everything would happen in the rising or dead of night ( ... )
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