The taste of electricity was in Mono's mouth as he woke up, his arms and legs aching as he pushed himself up.
A bullet tearing through him was just a dream-like memory now. The reality came to him in merciless waves, the crevice in which he and the girl next to him hid in, the unkempt grass up past the gravel, and the lumbering, stinking hunter that breathed heavily as he looked for the children, shotgun in hand.
Mono's gasp was a soft intake, a touch raspy. Noise could be a matter of life or death, and so his voice often went unused. He thought of that bullet, searing through his skin, and shivered. It was only recently that Mono awoke from his deaths, and did not know how long that would last. Nothing good in this world lasted long.
His hands clenched into fists and eased up, itching to strike the hunter, to ensure that he didn't pull the trigger and make them fall like marionettes abruptly cut off from their strings.
Mono knew all the places to strike, the most vulnerable and delicate spots – in this world you didn't get as tall as him if you didn't tear and scratch and writhe against the hands that grabbed you. But Mono could not fight a bullet.
Mono crept past the girl, and took a glance out of the hiding spot. All that greeted him was the heady, rotten smelling air. Sickness traveled up his throat as he thought of bear traps splitting him open and of bundles of flesh left on display in the forest and languishing in the house, macabre imitations of a family life. He swallowed down his fear and the sour taste coated his tongue.
His demise had been his panic and so he steeled himself.
He took a look at the girl. She was staring at him, crouched and silent, but she did not have fear in her eyes. Mono reached out and took her hand.
He only had hope that they both would last.
A/N: Originally posted on AO3 on February 22021
