repo for NaNoWriMo 2018
Being in a motel isn’t my favorite place to be, but I felt safe from The Behemoth for now. The last attack had lasted nearly weeks, and I knew its resources were spent for now. Carrying the medical kit into the room, I slid as quietly as my shredded muscles and joints would allow. Taking off my ragged clothes and looking at myself in the mirror really drove home how awful the past few weeks were.
God, you look like shit. I thought to myself. In any other situation, I would have been called a fairly handsome man. The man staring back at me had textured brown hair in a right part and stone-colored eyes that were constantly on the lookout for potential ambushes. The jawline, smooth several years ago, had distinct fractures. I could recall the exact moment when each fracture occurred. I prefer not to. In a previous life, my nose would have emulated the Romans; my nose now had been broken by brass knuckles, bare fists, pistol grips, rifle butts, boots, and rocks multiple times. Each time it was broken, I had to manually reset the bone. I don’t think my sense of smell will ever be the same.
The face looked ok. After cleaning up the dried blood it was time to inspect my upper body. My chest and shoulders have been sculpted from years of continuous physical exertion. I’d pulled two fully-grown men’s bodies while carrying a fifty-pound backpack across a grassy meadow in Szczecin. I had multiple fist-sized bruises. They’d need time to recover. I checked my legs after that. No bones were broken but I knew I would have difficulty walking tomorrow morning. I collapsed into the cheap bed and reviewed my notes, hoping to try to connect the dots once more.
It all started with The Intersection. Recalling what I knew already, The Intersection was a mark of a cross with four circles surrounding it. Within each circle was an ornate depiction of how you were to be killed. I called them Murals due to how accurate and detailed these were. No two mark bearers had the same Murals. The Intersection most commonly appeared in the upper forearm for men and the side of the pelvis for women. The longevity of the hunt also depended on how large The Intersection was. The smaller it was, the less time you had to live. Most people had months or weeks before The Intersection consumed them, but I’d been going for almost two decades.
My Intersection took up the entire back. It was prophesized that I’d be poisoned, dismembered of all of my limbs, cooked over an open spit, and my spinal column being ripped out of my body. I shuddered at the idea of all that happening to me. The desire to survive is a very animalistic impulse. An impulse that has served me well over the past few years evading The Behemoth.