Post by countlivin on Apr 23, 2019 4:40:48 GMT
Chapter 13: The Dimmer Light
Marten Lewis
Regret. It coursed through him, through his blood. It ran between the seams of his conscience like water through a strainer. Marten had never killed before, and if he was lucky, he would never have to again. Why am I not upset? After all, he'd thrown his life away in a split second decision. He wasn't sure if he would ever see his mother or his sister again, and it was entirely his fault. Yet, every time he wanted to bend over and let the cold wash over him, all that came was regret. It was a lonely feeling—like the whole world was watching him and laughing.
His cell was dark and his chains were chilly. He could not see, and the odor was worse than rancid. He tried holding his breath to stop the vomit, but the more he held in, the worse his nausea got. Both his arms were chained agonizingly on either side, fastened to the walls of the cell, and his shirt had been torn clean off. His legs ached like they had never ached before. The Peacekeepers had put him through a forced march into town, spanning at least ten miles. He was used to hiking, but with the weight of their looks on his shoulders, his footprints sunk even deeper.
He lifted his head enough to watch strands of his curly blond hair fall in front of his eyes. The thick, rusty iron bars in front of him were spaced closely enough that even the thinnest man would have a hard time squeezing anything larger than an arm through. Every other wall in the cell was made of coarse, dry brick. The prison was the sturdiest place in all of District Four.
"Ah, the young killer…" the Peacekeeper's voice echoed just beyond his field of vision. When he presented himself, Marten could see his ugly, gaunt grey features. He was the very same man who'd knocked him out in the rushing waters. "Does it make you feel good, knowing that somewhere out there a family is going to sleep tonight without a son? A brother? Do you like the feeling of blood trickling down your arms? I know I will."
Marten remained silent. The purpose of speaking was lost on him. Every word he said was poison.
"Not a talker, huh?" the Peacekeeper asked. He pulled a small knife from the pouch on his right leg and began caressing its sides with his fingers. "My name is Poole. The boy you killed was my nephew. He was full of ambition. He was going places with his life you could only dream of—places that I could only dream of… And now he's gone. Because of you."
Marten ignored him, not meeting the man's condescending glare. He already had enough guilt in his heart without the man adding any more. Poole slid open the gate to the cell and stepped inside. The sunlight from the window behind him was slowly fading, but he could still see the speckles of dust parting as the Peacekeeper strode through them.
"I want you to know that you have been sentenced to life in prison. No trial. No nothing. You will spend the rest of your pathetic, solitary life within these walls. I didn't agree with their decision. I told them you had to die. An eye for an eye, right?"
Marten shook his head from side to side. His words were nails on a chalkboard, grating at his ears. Poole reached down and grabbed the boy by the chin, jolting it uncomfortably to the side. "Look at me… You are nothing."
Marten slowly put his knee in front of him and used it to climb up to a standing position. He towered six inches taller than the man, but Poole didn't back down. He drove a practiced fist into Marten's rib cage, and could feel it crack slightly. Marten cowered in pain, but breathing heavily, he fought through it and stood.
Poole shook his head and frowned. "At least you've got courage. I'll give you that much." He delivered a swift blow to Marten's ankle and sent him spiraling back to the ground. He hit hard and swift, and coughed out the dust he'd inhaled. "Do you know what I'm going to do with this knife?"
Marten shook his head, sweat dropping off his chin and onto the ground. Poole spit into his face and it only added to his wish to vomit. He walked around to behind him and bent down to his level. "I want you to say it… Say what you said to Ronn as you bashed the life from his skull." Marten shrugged, closing his eyes. "Don't tell me you don't know, damn you. You remember exactly what you said. Don't insult me by playing coy…"
"You are nothing…" Marten muttered softly.
"Louder."
"You are nothing!" he repeated his head jerking sideways.
"No, you are nothing," Poole said. There was a jolt of pain in Marten's left shoulder blade, and he screamed as it slid downward. It wasn't a deep cut, but there was a trickle of red down the small of his back. Despite the pain, Marten steadied himself. "Say it again."
"You are nothing!"
Poole slid the knife into him again, the steel turning into cries of pain. It was on his right shoulder. This time rather than a line, there was a shape to it. It covered more surface than the last cut, and hurt ten times more. Overcoming the pain was hell.
"AGAIN!"
"YOU ARE NOTHING!" The words barely escaped his lips.
The Peacekeeper moved into his lower back and made many small cuts, spanning from the left side of his torso all the way to the right. Marten collapsed on the ground, finally crying. His back had been lit ablaze. The pain wouldn't leave, wouldn't stop. All the skin had been flayed from his back. "You still don't understand pain," Poole barked at him, crossing around to his front and dropping the bloody knife at his feet. If I can just break free… Reach the knife…
"You lay there in a puddle of your own blood feeling sorry for yourself," Poole continued. "It hurts, doesn't it… Now just imagine what it feels like on the inside."
"I know what loss is…" Marten choked through his coughs.
"No, you don't," Poole whispered back. "You have no idea what it's like to be surrounded by death every day. It's haunting. Everywhere I look, I have to deal with another case like yours. They all feel the same, that they were entitled to those other men's lives. Then they don't get what they deserve. I'm sick of it… so it's going to end today."
"Think of what they'll say," Marten whispered back, voice thin as a twig. "They'll throw you in here with me…"
"Does it look like I care?" Poole shook his head.
With a lot of effort, Marten managed to lift himself back onto his knees. He tried to peer over his shoulder to see what he'd done, but the first spot of blood made him queasy. He could tell that the Peacekeeper carved words there, but he didn't have the strength to look to find out. "What did you do to me? What does it say?"
Poole stood, dusting off his pants. "What do you think it says?"
Marten didn't respond. He knew exactly what it said, but he wouldn't think about it, not willingly. Yet, when the thought left, the regret seeped back through. Now, mixed with the bloody pain in his bag, it stung like poison.
"You're weak," Poole uttered, spitting into his unkempt beard. "You can't even hold your own against the pain. A man endures the suffering."
"Is that what you're doing here? Enduring?" Marten scowled up at him, though even opening his eyelids was a chore. "You're a hypocrite… You're going to kill me, and then talk about how wrong killing is…"
"Yes, I'm weak too," he admitted. He picked up the bloody knife in front of him and wiped it off on the cloth of his armor, staining it red. "But it doesn't bother me, knowing I will avenge my nephew's murder. Do you have any last words, Marten Lewis?"
75% of readers chose to [B. Stand back up.]
"No." He summoned the rest of his strength, what little was left, and placed his leg in front of his chest. He grunted and heaved, and before long he was on his feet. His vision blurred and there was air in his head. "Kill me and be done with it," he spat.
Poole chanced a look at his captive, and gripped his knife tighter. He saw the fury there, the intensity in his eyes. Marten had felt it too, the second before he killed Ronn. It was hesitation… But Poole's face hardened and he raised the knife behind his head. Marten clutched his chains and prepped for death.
"My boy's got a pair on him. That much is certain," came a thick, husky voice from out of sight. Marten hadn't heard that voice in years, but he could never forget it. The man coughed. "He takes after his old man…"
The Peacekeeper turned and left through the iron bars for a moment, into the shadow of the jail. He peeked over into the cell adjacent. "You, shut up!" he yelled, cracking the stone walls. "This is happening one way or another. Your son killed my nephew. He has to die! It's the natural order of things."
"Then why haven't I died yet?" Marten's father replied. He couldn't see the man, yet he saw the smirk. "Tell me, Poole… I've killed four or five in my time. What makes him so special he gets the chopping block before I do?"
Poole disappeared from view completely, and into the argument, but Marten could hear them, their angry, harsh voices. "You wanna die, Lewis?" Poole leveled the jail with his voice. "I can make that happen!"
"What makes you the one to do it?" His father replied in haste. "You think you got a right to take the place of District Four's vigilante executioner? You kill me or my boy… you oughtta be locked up in here with us."
"I will accept the consequences of my actions fully…" he said. "This is what I was meant to do. I am the justice this District needs."
"Does the District need revenge… or do you?"
A long pause. Poole was so evidently hesitant to be here in the first place, and had only just talked himself into going through with this volatile plan. "My… my nephew is…"
"Your nephew is dead?" Dad barked. "Yeah. You've said that more than a few times now. Don't excuse it though. You kill him… What do you think my family's gonna do to you? And what will your family do to them? Kill if you have to. In this world, killing is necessary, but it ain't revenge. It only leads to more broken families."
"I can see your point," the Peacekeeper sighed, "but how am I supposed to just let this go? He needs to feel the pain he brought me!"
"You dragged a knife through his back."
"Not deep enough."
"Just drop it," Dad snarled. Marten could hear the heavy footsteps. His father was approaching the bars of his cage. His chains were rattling as he moved. "Drop it right now, and this whole thing ends here. You let justice take its natural course, and you'll get your vengeance someday."
"I know…" Poole replied. His words leaked regret. "I'm in the Peacekeeping force… I know the law, but… He has no respect—acts like we're equals…"
"Shake on it." Marten's father reached a hand through the bars, his chains scraping against the iron. "You take this handshake, and chuck this in the river. No one needs to get hurt."
"I suppose you're right." They shook hands briefly. Marten let out a sigh of relief, a guilty one. I'm going to live, he thought. But the Peacekeeper was right. I deserve to die. "I'm sorry… I was just so angry, I didn't know—"
There was a rusty, metallic crash that echoed through the chamber. The sound of a struggle lasted for five seconds, with clawing sounds, and flesh banging against iron bars. Then, a loud snap, and a thud on the ground, and it was over. Several moments, later, Marten's father appeared in front of his cell, fingering a set of keys.
"You didn't…" Marten couldn't say it.
"Didn't what?" Dad unlocked the grate and began to undo his metal cuffs, one by one. Zak Lewis was a giant of a man, but the cell had made him somewhat smaller. The clothes he was wearing were in tatters, and looked as though they were made from random scraps of cloth found on the street. He was barefoot to match. His blond beard was three feet long, and was shot with grey where before it had been brilliant gold. Marten's father behind it still had the glowing green eyes of a man who hated the world. "You know exactly what I did. And I did it for you, Marten."
"You killed him…" Marten choked out. He rubbed his swollen wrists.
"He would have killed you," Dad retorted. He left the cell, not troubling to close the door, and Marten limped slowly behind, supported by the wall. It was the first time they had spoken since he was very young. "I may be a monster for leaving your mother to raise the two of you, but I try to do the most I can from that cell. Don't have to no more, though."
"Pop," Marten whispered. Every word he spoke felt wrong. "Where will you go? You're a fugitive."
"And so are you," he replied, removing his ruined shirt and putting on prison whites from the wardrobe beside the door. He handed one to his son. "You learn to play the hand you're dealt, son. We were stacked against."
Marten slipped the shirt over his head, knowing the back would be stained red before long. In the cell adjacent, there he was, broken and bleeding. The Peacekeeper's head had been turned all the way around, and his eyes were ever staring, ever judging. "He was mourning his nephew," Marten said. "He had every right to be angry."
Dad coughed, threw on a pair of combat boots and began suiting into a Peacekeeper's uniform. "Look, it may have been a ploy just to get out of that cell, but I meant everything I said to the man. Vengeance ain't the answer. I know you think I'm a monster because of the stuff I've done… But all of it—every single act—I've done out of necessity or self-defense. He stopped having the right to get mad when he carved words into your back."
"But…"
His father interrupted him as he zipped up the back of his suit, pushing open the door into the chill of outside. It was far brighter out there, even with the night descending down on them. "I'm gonna leave. You may not see me again for a long time, but I want you to know I love you, boy. Got it?"
"…yes," Marten finally replied, hesitantly.
"Go back to Willy and your mother," he commanded. "Let them know you're safe, but don't tell them anything about where I am. They'd just get overly upset. Not like you. You're a tough kid for standing up to the face of death like that. I know I ain't been around a lot, but I see a lot of myself in you."
"Okay, Pop." He wasn't sure how not to obey, with the forcefulness of his father's tone. "They'll find me, though… They'll take me."
"Yes. And they'll kill you. Just like they'll kill me." He put the white helmet on his head and the only thing Marten could make out beneath the black visor was his smile. "But you need to get one last goodbye in before you bite it. Me… I have a few things I gotta do."
Dad picked up the electric gun that was mounted on the wall by the security desk. He loaded it and held it as if he had always known how to use one. Within moments he was outside, and had disappeared into the woods. Before he left, he looked over his left shoulder and waved back for the last time. Marten found it so hard to wave back, so unnatural… He didn't like to let things go, especially when they were important to him.
Marten was grateful for the little warmth the blood-stained shirt provided him, and for the way it covered his scars. He was determined not to look at them, at least not until he got them bandaged. It still hurt like hell, but he knew he could make it home before he bled to death.
As he stepped out into the warm summer night, the light of the day had all but vanished. At least he had a task to set his mind to, but he felt more alone now than he ever had before. It was dark in prison, yet the dimmer light felt like a beacon in the fog compared to the walk home.
End of Chapter 13
Marten Lewis
Regret. It coursed through him, through his blood. It ran between the seams of his conscience like water through a strainer. Marten had never killed before, and if he was lucky, he would never have to again. Why am I not upset? After all, he'd thrown his life away in a split second decision. He wasn't sure if he would ever see his mother or his sister again, and it was entirely his fault. Yet, every time he wanted to bend over and let the cold wash over him, all that came was regret. It was a lonely feeling—like the whole world was watching him and laughing.
His cell was dark and his chains were chilly. He could not see, and the odor was worse than rancid. He tried holding his breath to stop the vomit, but the more he held in, the worse his nausea got. Both his arms were chained agonizingly on either side, fastened to the walls of the cell, and his shirt had been torn clean off. His legs ached like they had never ached before. The Peacekeepers had put him through a forced march into town, spanning at least ten miles. He was used to hiking, but with the weight of their looks on his shoulders, his footprints sunk even deeper.
He lifted his head enough to watch strands of his curly blond hair fall in front of his eyes. The thick, rusty iron bars in front of him were spaced closely enough that even the thinnest man would have a hard time squeezing anything larger than an arm through. Every other wall in the cell was made of coarse, dry brick. The prison was the sturdiest place in all of District Four.
"Ah, the young killer…" the Peacekeeper's voice echoed just beyond his field of vision. When he presented himself, Marten could see his ugly, gaunt grey features. He was the very same man who'd knocked him out in the rushing waters. "Does it make you feel good, knowing that somewhere out there a family is going to sleep tonight without a son? A brother? Do you like the feeling of blood trickling down your arms? I know I will."
Marten remained silent. The purpose of speaking was lost on him. Every word he said was poison.
"Not a talker, huh?" the Peacekeeper asked. He pulled a small knife from the pouch on his right leg and began caressing its sides with his fingers. "My name is Poole. The boy you killed was my nephew. He was full of ambition. He was going places with his life you could only dream of—places that I could only dream of… And now he's gone. Because of you."
Marten ignored him, not meeting the man's condescending glare. He already had enough guilt in his heart without the man adding any more. Poole slid open the gate to the cell and stepped inside. The sunlight from the window behind him was slowly fading, but he could still see the speckles of dust parting as the Peacekeeper strode through them.
"I want you to know that you have been sentenced to life in prison. No trial. No nothing. You will spend the rest of your pathetic, solitary life within these walls. I didn't agree with their decision. I told them you had to die. An eye for an eye, right?"
Marten shook his head from side to side. His words were nails on a chalkboard, grating at his ears. Poole reached down and grabbed the boy by the chin, jolting it uncomfortably to the side. "Look at me… You are nothing."
Marten slowly put his knee in front of him and used it to climb up to a standing position. He towered six inches taller than the man, but Poole didn't back down. He drove a practiced fist into Marten's rib cage, and could feel it crack slightly. Marten cowered in pain, but breathing heavily, he fought through it and stood.
Poole shook his head and frowned. "At least you've got courage. I'll give you that much." He delivered a swift blow to Marten's ankle and sent him spiraling back to the ground. He hit hard and swift, and coughed out the dust he'd inhaled. "Do you know what I'm going to do with this knife?"
Marten shook his head, sweat dropping off his chin and onto the ground. Poole spit into his face and it only added to his wish to vomit. He walked around to behind him and bent down to his level. "I want you to say it… Say what you said to Ronn as you bashed the life from his skull." Marten shrugged, closing his eyes. "Don't tell me you don't know, damn you. You remember exactly what you said. Don't insult me by playing coy…"
"You are nothing…" Marten muttered softly.
"Louder."
"You are nothing!" he repeated his head jerking sideways.
"No, you are nothing," Poole said. There was a jolt of pain in Marten's left shoulder blade, and he screamed as it slid downward. It wasn't a deep cut, but there was a trickle of red down the small of his back. Despite the pain, Marten steadied himself. "Say it again."
"You are nothing!"
Poole slid the knife into him again, the steel turning into cries of pain. It was on his right shoulder. This time rather than a line, there was a shape to it. It covered more surface than the last cut, and hurt ten times more. Overcoming the pain was hell.
"AGAIN!"
"YOU ARE NOTHING!" The words barely escaped his lips.
The Peacekeeper moved into his lower back and made many small cuts, spanning from the left side of his torso all the way to the right. Marten collapsed on the ground, finally crying. His back had been lit ablaze. The pain wouldn't leave, wouldn't stop. All the skin had been flayed from his back. "You still don't understand pain," Poole barked at him, crossing around to his front and dropping the bloody knife at his feet. If I can just break free… Reach the knife…
"You lay there in a puddle of your own blood feeling sorry for yourself," Poole continued. "It hurts, doesn't it… Now just imagine what it feels like on the inside."
"I know what loss is…" Marten choked through his coughs.
"No, you don't," Poole whispered back. "You have no idea what it's like to be surrounded by death every day. It's haunting. Everywhere I look, I have to deal with another case like yours. They all feel the same, that they were entitled to those other men's lives. Then they don't get what they deserve. I'm sick of it… so it's going to end today."
"Think of what they'll say," Marten whispered back, voice thin as a twig. "They'll throw you in here with me…"
"Does it look like I care?" Poole shook his head.
With a lot of effort, Marten managed to lift himself back onto his knees. He tried to peer over his shoulder to see what he'd done, but the first spot of blood made him queasy. He could tell that the Peacekeeper carved words there, but he didn't have the strength to look to find out. "What did you do to me? What does it say?"
Poole stood, dusting off his pants. "What do you think it says?"
Marten didn't respond. He knew exactly what it said, but he wouldn't think about it, not willingly. Yet, when the thought left, the regret seeped back through. Now, mixed with the bloody pain in his bag, it stung like poison.
"You're weak," Poole uttered, spitting into his unkempt beard. "You can't even hold your own against the pain. A man endures the suffering."
"Is that what you're doing here? Enduring?" Marten scowled up at him, though even opening his eyelids was a chore. "You're a hypocrite… You're going to kill me, and then talk about how wrong killing is…"
"Yes, I'm weak too," he admitted. He picked up the bloody knife in front of him and wiped it off on the cloth of his armor, staining it red. "But it doesn't bother me, knowing I will avenge my nephew's murder. Do you have any last words, Marten Lewis?"
75% of readers chose to [B. Stand back up.]
"No." He summoned the rest of his strength, what little was left, and placed his leg in front of his chest. He grunted and heaved, and before long he was on his feet. His vision blurred and there was air in his head. "Kill me and be done with it," he spat.
Poole chanced a look at his captive, and gripped his knife tighter. He saw the fury there, the intensity in his eyes. Marten had felt it too, the second before he killed Ronn. It was hesitation… But Poole's face hardened and he raised the knife behind his head. Marten clutched his chains and prepped for death.
"My boy's got a pair on him. That much is certain," came a thick, husky voice from out of sight. Marten hadn't heard that voice in years, but he could never forget it. The man coughed. "He takes after his old man…"
The Peacekeeper turned and left through the iron bars for a moment, into the shadow of the jail. He peeked over into the cell adjacent. "You, shut up!" he yelled, cracking the stone walls. "This is happening one way or another. Your son killed my nephew. He has to die! It's the natural order of things."
"Then why haven't I died yet?" Marten's father replied. He couldn't see the man, yet he saw the smirk. "Tell me, Poole… I've killed four or five in my time. What makes him so special he gets the chopping block before I do?"
Poole disappeared from view completely, and into the argument, but Marten could hear them, their angry, harsh voices. "You wanna die, Lewis?" Poole leveled the jail with his voice. "I can make that happen!"
"What makes you the one to do it?" His father replied in haste. "You think you got a right to take the place of District Four's vigilante executioner? You kill me or my boy… you oughtta be locked up in here with us."
"I will accept the consequences of my actions fully…" he said. "This is what I was meant to do. I am the justice this District needs."
"Does the District need revenge… or do you?"
A long pause. Poole was so evidently hesitant to be here in the first place, and had only just talked himself into going through with this volatile plan. "My… my nephew is…"
"Your nephew is dead?" Dad barked. "Yeah. You've said that more than a few times now. Don't excuse it though. You kill him… What do you think my family's gonna do to you? And what will your family do to them? Kill if you have to. In this world, killing is necessary, but it ain't revenge. It only leads to more broken families."
"I can see your point," the Peacekeeper sighed, "but how am I supposed to just let this go? He needs to feel the pain he brought me!"
"You dragged a knife through his back."
"Not deep enough."
"Just drop it," Dad snarled. Marten could hear the heavy footsteps. His father was approaching the bars of his cage. His chains were rattling as he moved. "Drop it right now, and this whole thing ends here. You let justice take its natural course, and you'll get your vengeance someday."
"I know…" Poole replied. His words leaked regret. "I'm in the Peacekeeping force… I know the law, but… He has no respect—acts like we're equals…"
"Shake on it." Marten's father reached a hand through the bars, his chains scraping against the iron. "You take this handshake, and chuck this in the river. No one needs to get hurt."
"I suppose you're right." They shook hands briefly. Marten let out a sigh of relief, a guilty one. I'm going to live, he thought. But the Peacekeeper was right. I deserve to die. "I'm sorry… I was just so angry, I didn't know—"
There was a rusty, metallic crash that echoed through the chamber. The sound of a struggle lasted for five seconds, with clawing sounds, and flesh banging against iron bars. Then, a loud snap, and a thud on the ground, and it was over. Several moments, later, Marten's father appeared in front of his cell, fingering a set of keys.
"You didn't…" Marten couldn't say it.
"Didn't what?" Dad unlocked the grate and began to undo his metal cuffs, one by one. Zak Lewis was a giant of a man, but the cell had made him somewhat smaller. The clothes he was wearing were in tatters, and looked as though they were made from random scraps of cloth found on the street. He was barefoot to match. His blond beard was three feet long, and was shot with grey where before it had been brilliant gold. Marten's father behind it still had the glowing green eyes of a man who hated the world. "You know exactly what I did. And I did it for you, Marten."
"You killed him…" Marten choked out. He rubbed his swollen wrists.
"He would have killed you," Dad retorted. He left the cell, not troubling to close the door, and Marten limped slowly behind, supported by the wall. It was the first time they had spoken since he was very young. "I may be a monster for leaving your mother to raise the two of you, but I try to do the most I can from that cell. Don't have to no more, though."
"Pop," Marten whispered. Every word he spoke felt wrong. "Where will you go? You're a fugitive."
"And so are you," he replied, removing his ruined shirt and putting on prison whites from the wardrobe beside the door. He handed one to his son. "You learn to play the hand you're dealt, son. We were stacked against."
Marten slipped the shirt over his head, knowing the back would be stained red before long. In the cell adjacent, there he was, broken and bleeding. The Peacekeeper's head had been turned all the way around, and his eyes were ever staring, ever judging. "He was mourning his nephew," Marten said. "He had every right to be angry."
Dad coughed, threw on a pair of combat boots and began suiting into a Peacekeeper's uniform. "Look, it may have been a ploy just to get out of that cell, but I meant everything I said to the man. Vengeance ain't the answer. I know you think I'm a monster because of the stuff I've done… But all of it—every single act—I've done out of necessity or self-defense. He stopped having the right to get mad when he carved words into your back."
"But…"
His father interrupted him as he zipped up the back of his suit, pushing open the door into the chill of outside. It was far brighter out there, even with the night descending down on them. "I'm gonna leave. You may not see me again for a long time, but I want you to know I love you, boy. Got it?"
"…yes," Marten finally replied, hesitantly.
"Go back to Willy and your mother," he commanded. "Let them know you're safe, but don't tell them anything about where I am. They'd just get overly upset. Not like you. You're a tough kid for standing up to the face of death like that. I know I ain't been around a lot, but I see a lot of myself in you."
"Okay, Pop." He wasn't sure how not to obey, with the forcefulness of his father's tone. "They'll find me, though… They'll take me."
"Yes. And they'll kill you. Just like they'll kill me." He put the white helmet on his head and the only thing Marten could make out beneath the black visor was his smile. "But you need to get one last goodbye in before you bite it. Me… I have a few things I gotta do."
Dad picked up the electric gun that was mounted on the wall by the security desk. He loaded it and held it as if he had always known how to use one. Within moments he was outside, and had disappeared into the woods. Before he left, he looked over his left shoulder and waved back for the last time. Marten found it so hard to wave back, so unnatural… He didn't like to let things go, especially when they were important to him.
Marten was grateful for the little warmth the blood-stained shirt provided him, and for the way it covered his scars. He was determined not to look at them, at least not until he got them bandaged. It still hurt like hell, but he knew he could make it home before he bled to death.
As he stepped out into the warm summer night, the light of the day had all but vanished. At least he had a task to set his mind to, but he felt more alone now than he ever had before. It was dark in prison, yet the dimmer light felt like a beacon in the fog compared to the walk home.
End of Chapter 13