‘I tended to worry when there was nothing to worry about. And when there was something to worry about, i got drunk.’
― Charles Bukowski, Pulp
His throat burned, bile rising, tension building, heart racing.
And the dogs howled, snarled.
His feet pounded, blisters rising, legs screaming, ready to quit.
Terror building inside him.
The steps rose ahead of him, his legs ready to fold, his lungs ready to burst. He ran hard up the steps, twisting, turning. The snarling hounds fast behind him.
He reached the top.
Stumbled into the bus shelter. Collapsed on to the bare metal bench. Pulled his coat tight around him. Reached into his pocket.
It was still there.
Crumpled, tattered, torn.
The list that could save him. He knew it could. It must. It held the answer. The only answer.
He had read it a hundred times. It was all there, every detail. Each step he needed to take to be free.
He began to read, the first line, the first item on the list.
Hot fetid breath filled his nostrils, he felt the fangs slice into his face. The black eyes of the hound.
The last thing, he ever saw.
WordPress Writing 101 (November 2015): Day 2