a world far from home (p)
Feb 14, 2015 0:43:27 GMT -5
Post by spook on Feb 14, 2015 0:43:27 GMT -5
There was nothing inside him. Not even fear.
Xandrus stood in the middle of the junkyard where he’d been living, if his present existence could be described as living, with his head held near his ankles. His breath came in steady, quiet gasps, the dust rushing away from his snout with every exhale. He looked like something that hadn’t been alive for a while, his sides gaunt beneath his heavy, ragged coat, his eyes sunken and his stare hollow. His eyes swept across the junkyard before him, a gaze thick and baleful and empty, searching mostly for something to eat. Isaac had taught him to hunt years ago but Isaac was a name the yellow dog hardly remembered, it came and went like a dream through his fog-strewn mind.
Some mornings he awoke and knew his name, knew his past, knew it all in heartbreaking clarity. Those were the mornings where he actually felt insane, because the memories made him so, tore at his mind and his conscience until he screamed futilely at the junkyard around him and willed the emptiness to descend again and obscure everything. Usually it did—it came upon him like fog stealing across a winter morning, so that by afternoon he would be standing just like he did now, his head low and his eyes tracing across the piles of rusty contraptions. The stench of the place filled and became him, and he accepted the ‘life’ he lived as penance for—
—oh god oh god don’t think about it. Sunk deep within the mists of his own mind, the mutt pulled himself from recollection with an air of distant relief, noticed a dark shape appear around a pile of garbage in front of him. The primeval, instinctual part of his brain recognized it as not a viable option for a meal—too big. Too lumbering. A stature that spoke to the creature’s power and will to survive. So Xandrus just stood, didn’t adjust his position to keep the other dog in his sight, just stood with his head held low and his breath disturbing the dust around his snout. He made no sound.
Vandraren came upon him this way, his only son and only surviving child standing in the middle of a junkyard all alone. He’d known—he’d known for months, now, that Xandrus had taken up residence here, because he’d smelled his son and followed the scent to the gates and stood there for hours waiting for something he didn’t want. But today had dawned stark and blue and freezing and the Bouvier had left Kekoa territory with a swift purpose to his stride. He didn’t have any expectations—in fact, his expectation was to find a corpse, and somehow seeing Xandrus standing there (when had he gotten so big? He’d filled out, gotten his father’s proper curly fur) was worse.
“Xandrus?” he said, softly at first, then cleared his throat and repeated the hail louder. “Xandrus!”
The boy didn’t respond, his ears just twitched but Vandr saw nothing in his eyes, not the slightest gleam of recognition. His stomach clenched and fear trilled through his bones—that ancient, deep-rooted phobia of madness that had begun the day he’d found Xandrus standing in much the same way over the bodies of his slaughtered family. He felt himself shaking and pushed himself forward anyway, the cold making his hips ache and his breath mist in front of his mouth. And as he approached he heard the boy begin to speak.
“Dad?”
Vandr’s heart thudded in his chest, a corybantic rhythm halfway between elation and utter, blood-freezing terror. He moved into a thundering trot and closed the distance between them, crushed the boy against his chest, hooking his bearded chin over Xandrus’ shoulders and embracing his son. And that’s when the nightmare began. Xandrus shook and Vandr thought he was crying, at first.
“It’s all right,” he said, closing his eyes hard, his voice low and husky, his strength gone, no idea where to go from here. “It’s all right, your dad’s here.”
But Xandrus wasn’t crying—he was simply shaking, the tiny piece of him that was still him railing beneath the mists, and Xandrus shifted his weight away from his father.
The tawny boy lifted a paw, massive like his dad’s, and placed it along Vandr’s side. He ducked, pushed his father off balance, and with a simple lunge, grabbed the older male’s throat just below the chin in his jaws. It was an artless maneuver but effective in such close contact. Vandraren staggered backward but couldn’t go far, felt his airway tighten, felt the stab of pain down his chest when Xandrus tightened his hold. He gurgled, snapped outward with an air of desperation, grabbed the only piece of Xandrus he could feasibly grab—the boy’s folded ear. He clenched until he tasted blood and his own pulse roared in his ears and Vandr knew he would die, but—
—hell, he’d almost killed the boy once, he couldn’t do it again. But he didn’t want to die, either. And with that thought Vandr slumped against Xandrus, his breath increasingly weak, and with one aching gasp of air he managed to shout.
“Shit! Help me!”
Xandrus heard the strangled yell but didn’t register it, his eyes utterly mad, blood leaking down the sides of his face.
ALONE
IN A WORLD FAR FROM HOME
TO SLIP AWAY
NO ONE CAN FIND ME HERE