Crack.
Lightning flashes. A momentary illumination casted over is gone as quickly as it appeared.
Boom.
Thunder rolls. The rumble of the heart of a lone young man in the dark echoes the violent wrath of the sky.
Wet. All around him it is wet.
Drenched. Soaked. The heavy rain does nothing to clear the air-the scent. Oh god, the scent. With the rain, the worst smell clings to the air, the dirt, the trees.
It's the smell of decaying flesh. Humans. A smell so pungent it seeps into everything, permeating the ground. And his lungs.
He's debating whether to smother himself or wait until he dies of starvation. But human instinct is to live.
He decides to get up, knowing it will be difficult.
It's harder than difficult. His fingers clutch at the ground to raise himself from the ditch and falls. He almost can't feel anything. Almost.
There's still pain. There's only pain. He doesn't know how long he's been lying here-not exactly. Maybe a week. No food, no water, and left for dead. Left with his own thoughts. His own battered emotions. All of his energy goes to his emotions, his thoughts.
He tells himself to shut down. Shut down so he can use his energy to get out. So he does.
It's dark and he can't see their bodies, but he still smells them. It pushes him to move faster. He can't help but to wish to bury the bodies properly. He can't worry about that. If someone came back he'd be fucked. Instead he crawls away. His hand slips into a creek, or a river. Perhaps a lake. He doesn't dwell on what fresh water source it is. He takes just a moment to study his reflection then dunks his head in to drink. He doesn't know if it was the hell he'd endured in the past week of the still drizzling rain displacing the water, but he didn't recognize himself. His hair was longer, darker. His face was stubbled.
He thinks it may be a good thing. Anonymity.
He lifts his head from the water, belly full.
The lightning strikes and he knows the pattern of it like clockwork by now. He's hoping he has enough strength. He knows when to go. He has to wait for the lightning to strike.
He begins his countdown.
4 One thousand.
He can't be heard. Just to be completely safe. So he waits.
3 One thousand.
He stands. Water's running down his face and there's no way to tell if it's rain or tears.
2 One thousand.
And fuck, he can't believe he's actually about to go where he's going. It's the only way. He knows who he has to go to.
1 One thousand.
To the ones who left him behind, he is dead. His death is his safety. His death creates time-a way out. Now…now is the time to seize it. Steady…
Crack.
Lightning flashes, and there's no way to tell if a man left for dead disapparated.