beast

A nameless fear washed over him as he realised he was being watched. He was mid-step, right foot hovering over a crack in the pavement when he'd spotted it out of the corner of his eye. Impossible to put to words exactly what he saw, a blur that had flitted between the shadows of the trees lining the pathway and disappeared, his brain registering the image half a second too late. He realised he was holding his breath, that every muscle in his body had tensed. He opened his hands, then balled them, opened them again and wiped them on his pants. Sweat stung his eyes and he blinked madly. His mind filled the uncertain void the blur had created with monsters, creatures of hair, and sharp teeth, and gore. He knew he was doomed. He knew, with a grave certainty, he could not outrun his foe, could not overcome or overpower it, could not reason with it. He could not escape. If he were to break into a sprint, and in one, two, three bounding strides take to the sky in flight, he would not be five metres above the ground when he would feel the creature's teeth sinking into his neck. It would not even take that, he knew quite certainly, it would not even take the creature physically attacking him, its presence alone, in the back of his mind, would anchor him and drag him down. Maybe the first bound would be weightless, even joyously buoyant, and the second even more powerful than that, his body flung airborne with grace and speed. But the blur, the blackness, he knew, would be there, watching mildly and maliciously, and smile as the third leap would- just- not- be- high- enough. The fourth leap would be shorter than the third. And by the fifth leap, he knew, tears of frustration would spring from his eyes, and his body would not even reach two metres off the ground, until finally he would be in the middle of the street jumping up and down like an asshole to no effect as the beast gained upon him.

So, what, then, is there for him to do? It was foremost important that he must not display any signs of fear, that is to say knowledge of the creature. Though his death upon the creature's claws was inevitable and the most he could do was delay it but a few precious minutes, to that end it was crucial to outwardly maintain the appearance of normalcy. It took several tries for him to find this, with his rearranging of how high his shoulders were to be held, if he should slouch, coolly, or hold a straight masculine back. If he should look his head around, as if surveying the surrounding environment of trees and houses, or if he should stare at his feet eating up the ground, as he was oft to do. But then would the creature read that as an invitation? A failure, even, to look the world 'in the eye'? Would that be the perfect opportunity to pounce? Should his arms swing, gaily, or would that be goofy, should they be held static at his sides, displaying strength, and self control? Should his hands be in his pockets, would that give the beast pause, thinking he held some weapon in his palms?

He eventually settled for a nodding stroll, head slightly inclined downwards but eyes fixated on the horizon. The relief of having decided on some, on any course of action quickly gave way to the reminder that he was being followed, tracked, by the horror. He remembered an old delaying tactic from his schooldays-- perhaps he should bend the knee, and tie up a shoelace. Of course both were done up tight already, double knotted, as was his custom, still tight and solid from the morning's preparations. He would have to mime exasperation at some string's phantom faulty, but the action would buy him a few seconds to look around, and to think. Perhaps even lure the beast into striking, thinking him distracted, and of course the crouched position is the perfect position from which to spring into a dead sprint, that's how the Olympic sprinters start their races, after all. But, no, he admonished himself, biting his lip a little too hard, that was stupid thinking. Stupid stupid stupid. He was not an Olympian, far from it, and besides trying to fool such a creature, a master of hunting, and of killing, was to mock it. He was nothing compared to it. He wanted only to be killed quickly, to have his body lifted up and slammed against a wall head first, to break his neck like a fish, or a rabbit, so as to prevent him flopping about too much when the beast began to eat him. He did not want the beast to play with him, like a cat would a rat with a broken leg, to bat him around, to eat him alive one bite at a time, to relish his screams and his spasms. He did not want to anger such a creature, so dreadful and cruel, he did not want to provoke it further. "Just over like that," he accidentally muttered aloud, again forgetting himself. The beast was majestic, in a sense, so supreme in its power as to be authoritative. It could snap his bones as easily as snapping finger and thumb. It was godly in its control of the situation. It was a wall. It was a black wave, that had started as a thin dark line on the ocean horizon, and had grown and grown and grown until it obscured all else. It was surrounding him. Encapsulating him. It was naught but fur and claw and it had him in its grasp.

He shook his head. There was little else for him to do. It was not fair, of course, it was not fair. Nothing is. Nothing ever had been. But it should, he thought, it should be. It could be. It would be so easy. If the beast had given him some preparation. Some small years to train, to work out. He could be a worthy adversary, of course. In just a few years. He could train, every day. He would have muscles, and skills. He could learn to build weapons and how best to use them. He could build himself a body designed to fight. All the beast had left him with was his flabby self, not even his real self, a husk. If only the beast had given him some kind of warning. Some way of knowing. He knew the beast was coming, of course, he'd always known, he'd always been waiting for it, it had never been far from his mind. But it was a matter of when. The beast had not given him any sign-- not one sign!-- of when it would appear. If he had known it was today he would have started training years ago. He would have run every day, to build his stamina. He would have lifted to build his strength. He would have studied to hone his mind. He would have sought out others, and learned from them. How was he to know? It was not fair. It was simply not fair. The nerve of it. To deny him this. His one chance. His one chance of vindication. He had potential, he knew, he'd always known, he'd been told his whole life. He had the potential. If only the beast had let him showcase it! If only the beast had faced him, on an open field, on a flat platform with no shadows to hide in. To face him one on one, fists up, like all the movies and video games and dreams had shown him. Instead the beast, the coward, had pounced on him at such an inopportune time. He had no armour to strap on. He had nothing. That is what the beast was to gain from killing him now-- nothing! It was the beast's loss.

But he knew, too, that this was folly, that this was lying, that this was not going to save him. Now was now, and in the now the beast's jaws were tightening all around him.