Life is not a fairytale; this was something Lucas Taylor had learned long ago. It was not a movie either. It did not matter if everyone was rooting for you, or if you had your family giving you motivational speeches before you entered the ring. It didn't matter if you were beaten down to your last breath, every inhalation a struggle to keep yourself awake. There was no voice in the back of your head telling you that it was okay when because the hero can never die, because life is not a movie. Life is not a fairytale.
The villain can win in life; there is no three-part structure to a real, living story. No one wants to hear about the life of a man who is brought to his knees in desperation, and when he gets back on his feet he is thrown back to the dirt. There are no stories where the hero does not succeed in anything. Life was not a story; it was fickle, harsh, and merciless.
He took in a shuddering breath, watching his father step toward him again. His vision was blurry. The ringing in his ears was deafening. His mouth felt filled with sand, wetted only with his own blood. This was not a story. He had no chance of survival, no savior to sweep in at the last second to save him. If anything, he was the villain. He was the one that they would damn for the next decade. He was the one that tried to kill the great Commander.
The log gave a throaty whack as it connected with his temple, sending him slamming into the springy forest floor. His vision went dark for a moment, but he forced himself back into consciousness. He did not have the strength to cough, so he could only sit idly by as the blood travelled up his throat and out through his swollen lips.
Rough hands lifted him back to his knees, though his head lolled forward. He stifled a moan, not daring to give his father the satisfaction. He could hear his father's voice, but could not make sense of it. It probably wasn't good; nothing good ever came from that man's mouth. His father lied to everyone in the colony, about everything. Every word from his lips was venom.
Someone put a palm on his forehead, leaning his cranium to face them. Judging by the white beard, it was probably his father. Lucas swallowed, then tried to spit on the man's face. Instead, a frothy trickle of blood gurgled from his mouth. He tried to move his tongue, tried to form words with it, but he had forgotten how.
His father's fingers tore at his scalp, then released as he threw Lucas to the ground once more. Lucas felt his body bounce on the soft ground then settle in the soil like a child's toy. For some reason it felt peaceful just to lie there as the world faded around him, dulled by the numbing pain that had immobilized him. He tried to move his fingers, but they just lay limp in front of his face. It was pathetic how weak the human body was. A brain of such prowess in the animal kingdom, handicapped by an unwilling body.
He was flipped onto his back, and a combat boot stomped on his chest. He hiccupped for air, but his lungs were blocked as his attacker leaned onto him. Lucas's eyes widened as he fought for a breath that he knew he would not receive. As a boy he'd often watched boxing matches, wondering why it was so hard for the fighters to get up after being knocked down. 'Just stand back up and keep going' he'd say. But now, as he lay defenseless underneath his sire, he realized how stupid he had been. There was no fight left to give, just nothingness. It was worse than the feeling of throwing up or exercising to exhaustion; there was simply nothing left. Panic set in as his lungs began to close, knowing their job was coming to an end; like the tick of a clock. Tick, tick, tick. Tick…tick…tick. Then, there was darkness.
Just stand back up and keep going. Stand up. Keep going.
"Thank you," Taylor put a hand on Mark's shoulder, "I'm just sorry you had to watch."
Mark looked down at the body, clenching his jaw. "No, thank you for letting me help. I'm glad he's gone, Terra Nova will finally be safe again." Both men seemed reserved, as if they could not see the horrific scene all around them. Blood was everywhere, but their eyes were on the slain man in front of them. Taylor suddenly shifted his gaze back to Mark, nodding towards the truck. Mark turned, stepping through the bracken with newfound rigor. He had just assisted in killing a man, no, he had just helped the Commander complete the most important mission in the history of Terra Nova.
"Hey," he called gently towards the truck. Skye's head appeared from the passenger seat, her face pale. She looked dreadful, and Mark almost regretted bringing her along. She gripped the edge of the truck window, her knuckles going white. He smiled reassuringly, "We got him, Skye, he's dead."