Episode 7. Reviews, suggestions, and speculation always encouraged.

Once Bitten

Do not all charms fly

At the mere touch of cold philosophy?

Run!

He had to get out of here. Away from – away from that thing – yes, away from him.

The boy skittered over the gravel, keeping to the shadow of the trees that lined the way. He didn't think that it would hide him, if he was being looked for, but it did, at least, protect him a little from the driving rain. With every crunching footstep he expected to be grabbed from behind and hauled away, back to his prison, or worse – but so far, he was safe.

But for how long?

He sped up a little, but then skidded to a sudden halt as a pair of huge wrought iron gates loomed up out of the rain filled night. He vaguely remembered going through these some months ago. Now he had to get back out. He gripped feebly at the wet metal, desperately tugging, but his hands slipped. He pushed and pulled, but he barely had the strength to rattle chain. His eyes filled with despairing tears, and he felt his chest seize up with fear.

He pushed his long, sopping wet hair out of his eyes, and forced himself not to give in to his feeling of hopelessness. There had to be a way out. He looked up, squinting into the steady rainfall. He wouldn't be able to climb the gate. He might have done a year ago, but now – now he was just too weak.

There was a snap behind him, and, terrified, he span around to see what it was. The wind gusted, bringing a small branch flying past him and through the bars of the gate. He held his breath, feeling his heart hammer against his ribs. He waited.

Nothing. No swipe, no grab, no bite. No laugh, nor a superior comment or some kind of pun. It was, it seemed, just the wind. Nothing but the wind breaking a branch off a tree. He was still alone.

Frightened, emaciated, and alone.

He turned back to the gate. Maybe – that branch had given him an idea – maybe his long imprisonment might actually help him out here. He wouldn't have thought about that!

Tentatively, the boy turned sideways and pressed himself against the bars of the gate. Almost – he could, if he squeezed his eyes shut and really pushed – he grunted with relief as he managed to get his head free on the other side. And now – his shoulders, if he twisted – ouch! – them like that, and then his chest. The thought suddenly ran through his head that if he got stuck here, he would certainly die – and, what was worse, it would be really excruciatingly embarrassing. But he was probably going to die anyway. He let out all the air in his lungs and then, biting his lip to suppress a cry, he scraped his hips through the bars. After that, his skeletal legs were comparatively easy, but as he made it through, his foot caught on the strut at the bottom and he fell onto the pavement on the other side.

He lay there for a few moments, taking a few deep breaths to try and recover. It was a mercy that he hadn't broken his ankle. Wincing, he got unsteadily to his feet. He ran a hand over his body. His right shoulder was very – aaargh! – tender. Blinking away the tears of pain which had sprung into his eyes, he let out a long hiss as he tried to control his reaction to the pain. He hoped he'd no done anything bad to it. He grimaced. No time to worry about that now.

On. He had to go on. He'd got out of the grounds, but now he had to get to somewhere safe. Was anywhere safe? He doubted it. How could it be when he was so – was so –?

He started running, splashing through the puddles that the rain was still dancing in, uncaring of the water and mud clinging to his trousers – trousers so ragged that the water and mud were really clinging more to his legs than to the vestiges of any fabric.

The road that snaked lazily down the hill was, tonight, more like a meandering river, and every backward loop that took him nearer to that house gave him a sickening lurch in the pit of his stomach. He took the shortest route he could at each of these turns, pounding blindly through the rain. He had no idea where he got the endurance from – he'd not really been too fit before his capture – but, here he was, nearly at the bottom –

A car, lights flaring, swung into the road. Frozen, rabbit-like, in the middle of the road, the boy gaped at the oncoming vehicle, before flinging himself to the side, scudding across the tarmac. The angry horn blared in his ears as the car swept on up the hill through the rain.

His forearms skinned and his face grazed by the chips of the road, while his clothes were made even more tattered than before, the boy groaned and crawled to the pavement. He huddled by a streetlight with a broken lamp, shaking uncontrollably. He was going to die tonight. He just knew it. He felt sick, and as if all his strength had suddenly been sucked out of him.

Putting out a skeletal hand he gripped onto the metal body of the lamppost, and dragged himself up, his tendons popping with the strain. He leaned against it, breathing heavily, baring his muddy, bloody, tear stained face to black clouds above. The rain, at least, cleaned it a little, but – oof! – it stung.

Keep running.

Though exhausted, he started off again. It was late; too late for most traffic, which was fortunate for him, as he was far too weary to look where he was going or check for oncoming cars as he crossed the roads in his path. Where he was running to, he didn't know, but just to get away until he found somewhere that he recognised. He couldn't stop. If he stopped, he knew that he would just curl up and resign himself to whatever was going to happen to him. But he wasn't stopping yet.

Was he safe yet?

No. Of course not. He could be anywhere. He could be everywhere.

He looked furtively over his shoulder, and then back to his front, half expecting to see him standing, inches away from him, grinning that insane grin at a joke that only he knew about. But he wasn't.

Here. His legs, tired, loyal, attached, had brought him here. He knew here, at least. But did here know him?

If anywhere could be safe, this would be. He knew that was a lie. He glanced down at the bush by the side of the house. It had grown since he had last been here. He forced himself up the few short steps and onto the porch. He gave a little groan of relief as he stepped out of the rain.

The lights were off. That was ominous. Regardless, he pounded on the door. No answer. He banged again, willing the door to open. Nothing.

Leaning against the wall of the house, he shuffled painfully along the side, and peered in at one of the windows. It was dark, but didn't look right. He wondered what he would have looked like had there been anyone in there: a gaunt, ghostly figure leering out of the storm. It would frighten anyone to death.

He made his way back to the door. How could there be nobody there? Surely here of all places…

"Someone…" he croaked. "Please…" His fist knocked against the wood, this time barely making a sound. "Let me in…" he whispered, his voice choking into a sob.

He turned away from the house and tottered listlessly down the steps, past a, now he realised, unfamiliar car in the driveway, and into the street. Was he even in the right place?

He looked up at the house opposite, and he knew that this was the right place. There was a light on there. This was his last hope, then. But could he go back there?

His legs, again, speaking for him, he staggered up the steps, and, too tired even to stand up, let alone push the lank hair, which was now blinding him, out of his eyes, he fell forwards, groping for the knocker. His hand found it, and he tapped feebly.

Nothing. No answer.

But then –

"What's that?" came a voice, muffled by a distance into the house. "I thought I heard - Is there someone at the door?"

"I'll check," said another. There was an exasperated sigh. "Yes, I'll be very careful!"

His eyes closed and ears straining, the boy leaning against the door thought that he could hear footsteps, and then bolts being drawn back. There were some muttered words, and then, at last, the door opened.

Ethan collapsed into Benny's arms.