There's blood everywhere. How did it become such a mess?
He almost slips on it when he tries to back away from the motionless body, stumbles and grips onto whatever is closest. Cold stone stains red from where his hands touches.
Shit shit shit shit
His heart is beating furiously, mockingly, he thinks. Mocking the still heart in the opposite end of the dim crypt. Breathing is hard, the air is stuffy and heavy with the smell of blood and fear.
God, he should have taken the damn time to close the eyes. They're staring at him now, judging him, accusing him, knowingly.
He, who's always taken such pride in his fearless and sometimes gateway insane ways of life, is terrified beyond measure, frozen in fear. And of what? A dead body, a pair of cold, lifeless eyes, a secret that remains untold. It is ridiculous.
No one comes down here nowadays anyway. It could take weeks, months even, before it is discovered. By then, he'd be far from here and this nameless body would in no way be connected to him. He could continue his life, push the memories of this day so far back in his mind that they'd never resurface again.
He curls one finger, then another one and another, until his hands are tight fists. He breathes out, shakily, forcing himself to stay calm and collected. Losing control now, so close to the goal would make all his efforts futile.
Slowly, careful not to slip again, he takes a few trying steps closer to the body and the coffin it's laying on. Ironical, isn't it? Dying on a coffin. He almost feels like laughing at it. At the fucking absurdity of the situation. He refrains and silently moves closer.
Hundreds of souls are staring at him, he can feel their angry eyes burning him from the walls, the ceiling, the pillars. Demanding his punishment for disturbing their peace. Shivers chills his bones and for a fragment of a second, he is so very close to turning on his heels and flee the crypt.
But again, he is so close and it would make all his work futile.
Something clangs against his foot and he freezes instantly, terror in his crimson eyes, until he looks down and sees the drenched knife he had used only moments before. He breathes out, calming himself, but his hand is still shaking when he reaches out to close the eyelids of the body. Gods, what has he gotten himself into?
It takes a few tries, but he manages to push the heavy body from the coffin and slide the lid off. A stench of death hits him and he recoils back, fighting down the urge to throw up.
So close now, so incredibly close.
He ties his scarf over his nose and, ignoring the decayed remains of what once was a human, sticks his hand under it, searching.
Thud, thud, thud
The unmistakable sound of footsteps reaches his ears and he stiffens. They're heading his way, but yet they're far away. There's plenty of corridors and crossways to turn into, he might be lucky, the footsteps could turn into any other dark and gloomy room.
He's too close to give up now.
His fingers graces cold metal and he smiles triumphantly as they close around the medallion, footsteps temporarily forgotten.
It's beautiful. The light from the torch reflects in the carefully and expertly polished amethyst, coated in gold, with swirls of white gold and precious gemstones engraved along the edge. It comes open with a silent click and a small piece of paper falls out.
The footsteps are coming closer. He hurries to snatch the crumbled note and unfolds it.
Bingo!
With a victorious grin plastered on his lips, he stands and turns to leave, eager to get out of the crypt.
Karma, he has the time to think in the seconds between when his feet lose their stability and when he falls head first onto the slippery floor. For a indefinable moment, his head spins and he feels wetness seeping through the thin fabric of his clothes, dyeing his pale skin with the blood of the man he killed.
He aches. Through his half-lidded eyes, he sees the body, carelessly dumped by the wall, and he swears it is mocking him.
Serves you right, it says. You will be found and you will be hanged
He swears it is laughing at him with those cold lips.
Death has it coming your way
What is worse, he realises only seconds later, is the lack of footsteps. The crypt is as silent as death itself.
Then, quicker steps. Quicker and louder, without doubt heading for him.
He pushes up on his knees, head spinning. The medallion is still clutched in his hand. He needs to get out. He can't think clearly, but he knows he needs to get out. Now. He's done for if he is found here.
Serves you right, says the body.
"Shut up", he hisses and grabs the knife in his free hand, tucking down the medallion into his jacket pocket. Focus is slowly coming back to him. He stands up, dizzy, and wipes the blood from his brow with the hem of his jacket. It does little to wipe it off, but he doesn't care. He can wash it off as soon as he's out and safe.
"Hello? Who's there?"
He throws the torch in the pool of blood, killing the fire, before he sneaks out from the tomb. Trails of red stalks him, he notices to his dismay. He tugs off his shoes, hiding them in the shadows. The floor is cold under his bare feet. From the constant presence of death, he thinks.
The footsteps are slower now, careful, searching. He likes to think they're afraid.
"Hello?" There's a quiver at the end of the syllable.
The dead won't answer
Never so quiet, he holds his breath as the guard walks by, casting glances into the tombs, desperation to leave this place evident on her face.
The moment the guard turn into a side path, he takes his chance and sneaks towards the stairs. Not careful enough, though. His head still feels fuzzy and he loses balance for a brief second, stumbling into a pillar.
Shit shit shit
"Hey, you!" The footsteps return, faster, more confident and less scared. Maybe the thought of a grave robber rather than a ghost is a comforting one for the guard.
He sets off in a sprint, feet moving on their own accord. Door. Turn. Stairs. Up, up, up.
"Stop right there!"
More stairs. Door. Turn left. A moment of hesitation at the crossing. Stairs. Up. Always up.
The air gets clearer the higher up he comes and he has a harder time to breathe it in for each floor he passes. The guard screams after him. Chasing him up from the home of the dead.
He doesn't stop running until he's deep into the forest. Over stones and fallen trees, through bushes. Stumbling and slipping in the dark until he dares to slow down and stop, in the safety of his usual hideout. There, he collapses onto the ground, laying flat on his back, gasping for air.
With his heart beating heavily in his chest, breath hitched, legs shivering, body aching, he wonders if he's ever felt more alive. He did it. He actually did it.
He digs out the medallion from his pocket and wipes the blood off on the grass. Carefully, he strokes it with thumb and admires the way it glisters in the moonlight. He opens it and once again, unfolds the dirty paper. As much as the piece of jewellery is worth in itself, this old, crumpled paper is priceless in comparison.
A sudden urge to laugh overwhelms him, and he laughs. Loud, mad and beyond exhausted, he laughs. With another man's blood in his hair, dyeing his skin red, drying and flaking like old paint.
He laughs.
