The dust was not what tore at his fingernails. That was something else entirely, but the dust did swell up in his eyes, coating his lungs as the foul breath swam his vision in the ocean, drowning to consciousness and the murmuring of the distant traffic.
As the buzzing stopped and the stench faded he dared open his eyes, just a fraction, hoping to God he didn’t see his arm, the shock was covering the pain so far but he felt brittle, like snapping was oh so easy to do. Still chocking on the dust of the cellar he squinted into the darkness. Ahead was a clear path to the door, those stairs rising to infinity, his body ached and groaned at the memory. Suddenly a growl and he snapped. The pain cascaded down and the fear overwhelmed his senses. Fighting the darkness he rose again.
This time to face his padded foe with a smirk, not a scream.
________________________________________________
And that little Timmy is why we do not release Lions into suburban neighbourhoods? Ok? You feel you have learnt your lesson today? And tomorrow you’re going to apologise to that poor man’s family? Ok?
Good lad, now of to bed before your mother gets home. Chop chop.
- Mr Winston
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