Sic Semper Interfectores

The wet slap of bare feet on the pavement disrupts the stony silence of the street, but its occupants do no more than shiver in their sleep. The runner, a boy no older than thirteen, glances behind him, eyes wide, heavy breaths tearing themselves from his throat. He stumbles as he runs, dodging the unfamiliar obstacles of the affluent neighborhood he has found himself in.Shoulders shuddering in exhaustion, he claws his way to the porch of one house, the only one on the street with its gilded streetlamps lit. He slumps on the steps, not daring to climb any higher, and turns his gaze to the street behind him. Rows of identical grey houses line the paved road, their windows gleaming in the moonlight. The street is freshly paved, its white lines reflecting the soft light of the dim streetlamps. The street is smooth and glistening, lined with pristine white sidewalks and, here and there, the mangled remains of what was once a car.

In the distance the buildings give way to total darkness, the pale light of the streetlamps no longer reaching the boy's eyes. He squints, hardly daring to hope, and - there. A pinprick of light in the dark, coming steadily closer.

He scrambles onto the porch, his fear outweighing his initial misgivings, and cowers behind the wicker chair, knowing that it is of no use. Tears spring to his eyes and he clutches his thin arms closer to his tremulous form.

Although he can no longer see the steadily approaching light, the sound that accompanies it begins to reach his ears. The heavy scraping of metal on pavement, the labored breathing of a large man, the solid thumps of his footfalls, all cut through the night like a knife. The boy pulls himself in tighter, clenching his eyes shut, for all the good that will do him. He regrets his choice to search out the comforting embrace of the light, knowing the darkness would hide him better, but it is too late to move now. His nails begin to tear bloody grooves in his arms and tears flow freely from his eyes. The sound grows steadily closer.

A voice joins the haunting cacophony, a voice heavy with memory. "Why?" it calls, "Why did you do such a thing?"

The boy cannot help himself. He cries out, "I'm sorry," his voice shrill and creaking with both fear and disuse.

A light blinks on inside the house. The boy barely catches it in the second he dares to open his eyes, a mere glint of the brightness in the window behind him. The door opens and an old man steps out onto the porch, looking wildly from side to side. He is wearing a thin nightgown that hangs off his skeletal frame, along with a matching cap that barely restrains his windswept white hair. His eyes catch sight of the boy cowering behind his chair, their steady blue gaze taking in the child's appearance. The boy looks a mess, with too-thin limbs and clothing all askew, covered in filth and caked in mud and stained with worryingly red marks.

A worried crease appears between the old man's eyes and he crouches to meet the boy's fearful, tear-streaked eyes. "Would you like to come in?"

The child's eyes widen, glimmering with cautious hope, and he nods. He straightens his aching limbs and follows the man back through the door, hovering awkwardly in the doorway. He is hesitant to place his feet, shoeless and bloody, on the pristine white rug that takes up the majority of the floor. The man sees his uncertainty and gives him a kind smile, placing a hand on his back and leading him to the kitchen, where he is motioned into a chair and given a mug of hot cocoa.

It is only then that he realizes all sounds of the man on the street had halted as soon as the light went on inside.

The old man shuffles around the kitchen, assembling a pair of sandwiches. As he hands one to the boy, sitting down across from him, he says, "My name is Xavier Ivan Carter." He grins, as if hoping the child would laugh or provide his own name. The boy only takes a small bite of his sandwich, turning his dull grey eyes to the ground. After a while he mutters, "I'm Sam."