The smell of fresh blood hung heavily in the air. Sourly sweet; Copper, metal and salt. A sick-makingly rusty scent. Nauseating. Blood everywhere. Thick, hot, sticky blood. Sweet, sour, salty blood. Victory and defeat. Pain.
Physical. Psychological.
He breathed in. A deep breath. A gasp for fresh air. A trail of blood trickled from his temple. From his lip. The taste of blood was thick in his mouth. He spit. More blood. He lifted his hand, ran his trembling fingers over his lips to remove the blood. He gave up, when the blood kept trickling down, seemingly unaffected by his touch.
Deans eyes wandered around the room. He was used to blood. It was a natural part of his life. His job. He'd seen more blood in the last few days, than most people would see in a whole lifetime. He wasn't affected by it. Never. Why would he? We all have blood in our bodies. Why would you flinch away from something you have running inside your own body?
But this was different. This was different. His footsteps seemed to make endless echoes through the room. A loud ringing noise in his ears. He could have sworn he'd heard the sound of crunching leaves under his feet. Someone was saying his name in the distance, but he didn't hear it. In his mind, he was far away from the room.
Footsteps on crunchy leaves. Someone silently whistling. The sound of the wind. The feeling of complete focus. The determinatination. Blood splashed on the dark trees. It's cold tonight. Colder than the other nights. And moist. The air feels slightly moist, as if it's about to rain. He stands leaned against a tree. Watching, as the other two are talking. He doesn't listen though. He keeps guard. Something breaks through the forest. He doesn't have time to react. Everything is moving so fast now.