A/N: Beware. I wrote this in bits and pieces.over a span of about four
days. And just clearing something up.Manta is about four feet. :D The
chicken coop is about four feet tall, eight feet wide, and six feet
lengthwise. Thus.Manta's head scrapes the top of it, but he's able to sleep
and crawl around comfortably. Yes.
Manta crawled across the damp floor of the small shack, feeling his way around in the darkness of night. His hand rested on something stale, but still warm. He snatched up the piece of bread and bit into it, having used to this cruel game that He had spun. Obviously, he'd been wanted to keep unharmed and alive, because He was still giving Manta food and water every day. Honestly, Manta had thought by now either this person would give up, kill him, or sell him. Manta had never actually seen His face, but the growls He made to disguise His voice were most definitely masculine.
Though still rather short, having grown another half foot since he'd been kidnapped, Manta had to crouch to stand up, much less get up and walk around. Thus, he was mostly found on the floor. The shack was dusty, about the size of a large tool shed, and had wooden slats laid against the floor in order to give some support. However, it was not uncommon to find something living sharing his rather comfortable residence. He'd explored every single crack, every slat, every small bit of light that he could somehow use to bust free of the locked, but apparently VERY sturdy little house. In the corner he'd been given a blanket, a basket of stale bread and a pitcher of water that was to last him the day and night, and every day it was refilled through a knothole in the boards. Manta had tried to break free through this too, but, yet again, it hadn't been successful.
He sighed, still nibbling at the half loaf of bread, and stood up to stretch his muscles with his head bowed to keep from hitting the ceiling. His legs ached, and he fell back down to the ground, creeping across the perimeter of the small shack, lying with his back straight up against the slats and pushing against the floor to push backwards against them. Manta did this every day. Knock on the wood to see if something had crept inside it, made it hollow. Push at it to see if it would somehow budge. Finally, he'd retreat back into his living space on top of the blanket, letting his mind wander to more pleasant places...in a real bed. With someone warm and happy...and snoring. He laughed again at this, remembering the last time he'd been in his own bed with a real blanket, real sheets, real pillows...and then he could fall asleep. Thinking of these things. He'd almost finished with the boards, hardly putting forth any effort. One last time, he put his feet on the floor to brace himself, and pushed backwards into the boards. And then, something budged.
Something had MOVED.
He went wide-eyed, bracing himself yet again, and pushing harder against the back. The sharp crack of wood splintering was heard, but the boards still didn't give way. He was suddenly scared to death, and wondered if pushing again was worth another try. What if He came? What if He had heard, and was standing out there with a gun, just waiting for him to stumble out? He sat against the wooden slats of the wall and stayed silent, praying that he wouldn't be found. His heartbeat pounded in his chest, his rapid breathing the only other sound. Finally, he braced himself once more, and shoved himself backwards into the wall as hard as he could. With a loud crack, the bottom boards broke to the ground.
Cool, clean, fresh air blew for the first time on his back and hair, a sudden chill overtaking him.. He breathed in, smelling the sweetness of wet dew on the grass beneath his bare feet. The mustiness of the small barn (he saw now that it was a chicken shed with the shelves removed) was on his clothes, his hair, and pretty much everything. His legs ached, not wanting to move, and the splinters in his back had started to bleed. He had to walk though.
He stumbled down a grassy hill relieved to see the highway straight ahead of him. He stood at the edge of the road, staring at the passing cars that roared past him. He stuck his thumb out to hitch a ride, staring as a green pick up truck slowly came to a stop and a man leaned out the window.
"Hey kid, where you headin'?" The man surprisingly spoke in English, a calloused hand holding a cigarette out the window with the smoke curling off into the cold night.
Where was it again? Tokyo. Yes. Tokyo, Japan. He needed to go THERE..
"Tokyo, sir." He spoke politely back. The man lifted an eyebrow.
"Tokyo? That's a long ways off for a kid like you t' be travelin', eh? I guess I could take you...It'll be a while."
"Thank you." He bowed his head quickly, and got into the truck next to the man.
"S'no problem at all, kid."
Manta crawled across the damp floor of the small shack, feeling his way around in the darkness of night. His hand rested on something stale, but still warm. He snatched up the piece of bread and bit into it, having used to this cruel game that He had spun. Obviously, he'd been wanted to keep unharmed and alive, because He was still giving Manta food and water every day. Honestly, Manta had thought by now either this person would give up, kill him, or sell him. Manta had never actually seen His face, but the growls He made to disguise His voice were most definitely masculine.
Though still rather short, having grown another half foot since he'd been kidnapped, Manta had to crouch to stand up, much less get up and walk around. Thus, he was mostly found on the floor. The shack was dusty, about the size of a large tool shed, and had wooden slats laid against the floor in order to give some support. However, it was not uncommon to find something living sharing his rather comfortable residence. He'd explored every single crack, every slat, every small bit of light that he could somehow use to bust free of the locked, but apparently VERY sturdy little house. In the corner he'd been given a blanket, a basket of stale bread and a pitcher of water that was to last him the day and night, and every day it was refilled through a knothole in the boards. Manta had tried to break free through this too, but, yet again, it hadn't been successful.
He sighed, still nibbling at the half loaf of bread, and stood up to stretch his muscles with his head bowed to keep from hitting the ceiling. His legs ached, and he fell back down to the ground, creeping across the perimeter of the small shack, lying with his back straight up against the slats and pushing against the floor to push backwards against them. Manta did this every day. Knock on the wood to see if something had crept inside it, made it hollow. Push at it to see if it would somehow budge. Finally, he'd retreat back into his living space on top of the blanket, letting his mind wander to more pleasant places...in a real bed. With someone warm and happy...and snoring. He laughed again at this, remembering the last time he'd been in his own bed with a real blanket, real sheets, real pillows...and then he could fall asleep. Thinking of these things. He'd almost finished with the boards, hardly putting forth any effort. One last time, he put his feet on the floor to brace himself, and pushed backwards into the boards. And then, something budged.
Something had MOVED.
He went wide-eyed, bracing himself yet again, and pushing harder against the back. The sharp crack of wood splintering was heard, but the boards still didn't give way. He was suddenly scared to death, and wondered if pushing again was worth another try. What if He came? What if He had heard, and was standing out there with a gun, just waiting for him to stumble out? He sat against the wooden slats of the wall and stayed silent, praying that he wouldn't be found. His heartbeat pounded in his chest, his rapid breathing the only other sound. Finally, he braced himself once more, and shoved himself backwards into the wall as hard as he could. With a loud crack, the bottom boards broke to the ground.
Cool, clean, fresh air blew for the first time on his back and hair, a sudden chill overtaking him.. He breathed in, smelling the sweetness of wet dew on the grass beneath his bare feet. The mustiness of the small barn (he saw now that it was a chicken shed with the shelves removed) was on his clothes, his hair, and pretty much everything. His legs ached, not wanting to move, and the splinters in his back had started to bleed. He had to walk though.
He stumbled down a grassy hill relieved to see the highway straight ahead of him. He stood at the edge of the road, staring at the passing cars that roared past him. He stuck his thumb out to hitch a ride, staring as a green pick up truck slowly came to a stop and a man leaned out the window.
"Hey kid, where you headin'?" The man surprisingly spoke in English, a calloused hand holding a cigarette out the window with the smoke curling off into the cold night.
Where was it again? Tokyo. Yes. Tokyo, Japan. He needed to go THERE..
"Tokyo, sir." He spoke politely back. The man lifted an eyebrow.
"Tokyo? That's a long ways off for a kid like you t' be travelin', eh? I guess I could take you...It'll be a while."
"Thank you." He bowed his head quickly, and got into the truck next to the man.
"S'no problem at all, kid."