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Waves of intense radiation poured from his body, like molten hell fire. The air was thick and stifling, his breathing uncontrollable and erratic. His chest tightened uncharacteristically, the feeling a beguiled lover often laments over, a heart in the unfortunate thralls of torture and anguish.

Sadistic, a word he himself had often been called, that was the only word to describe his punisher’s wrath.

His feet throbbed, as his soles burned. Veering to the left, off the beaten path, he stumbled and fell to the ground. Blood, as dark as wine, flowed from his knee, trickling down his leg teasingly. He paid it no mind and pushed himself back to his feet with rough calloused hands, the tiny cuts on his palms burning from the contact with the asphalt.

He scanned the city block for any sign of life. Not even a maggot twitched. Thinking back he tried to remember if he had seen any lights on. His mind was fuzzy from the lack of oxygen flowing to his brain, but he was certain not even the street lights were on.

Unable to run anymore he collapsed to his knees and clasped his hands together, coughing fitfully. He should have stopped smoking sooner. The cough finally subsided, but the dagger in his chest lingered. He looked around desperately. Nothing.

Shaking slightly he stood up and slinked closer to the building, trying to blend in with the shadows. He couldn’t be caught. He wouldn’t go back there.

Slowly he meandered up the street, silent as a cat. So many doors, which to choose? Anyone could lead to another tortuous hell.

Is living as a shadow living at all?


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