The Shearing

Twelve

I suck in a sharp breath as I gaze up to a scrawny figure clad in threadbare cloak in front of me. The silver pistol is clutched within his shaky fists with its barrel now pointed between my eyes. It would only take a slight twitch of his finger to click the trigger, and I'd be done just like that. But as I force to steady my erratic heartbeat , and my eyes fly up to meet his, I did not fail to see fear and doubt clouding his eyes. After all, it's the window to one's soul. 

Judging the way he look, he's too thinly built and battered-looking for a murderer; the kind of thin that would probably snap up upon a jab. Nevertheless I refrain to move a muscle. I have yet to know his capability, and the fact that he's holding me at gunpoint already proves the danger he's posing. Soot sweaty locks curl up to veil a fraction of his bright green eyes, which is outlined with axle grease like that of a smudged makeup.

"Don't move," he warns in knitted teeth; his voice is low, hoarse, and threatening; his adam's apple bobs as he gulps down, and his eyes seethes in renewed ire.

If he could hear my screaming heartbeat, he'd know I have no plans of moving from my position. My lips are pressed in a hard line yet my mind's already bellowing for help. None from the crowd seems to notice what's happening here. My gaze remains upon his, hoping for a distraction, and once his eyes averts even just for a little, I'd probably have a split second to wham the gun off my face, and that is, if he's not more agile than I am, and if he is, then I'll have to deal with that kind of thought later. I need to do this first.

"What the hell do you want?" I speak up in clenched jaw, my voice raising for a fraction.

"You," he starts in knitted teeth, eyes locked on mine, "it's you whom they wanted, and I'm going to earn my prize tonight, lady," he adds as his lips edge up into a canine grin, and his eyes roam my face and slowly trail to my shoulder . . . the part where my mark lies covered.

"Morale." The word slips out from my lips before I could hold it back; my fingers twitch, and I start to slowly move my arms to halt the burning sensation that's engulfing my biceps from being raised up too long.

"Yes, and your leaders have just arrived," he mumbles in guttural tone.

How did he know I'm a Morale? The thought haunts me instantly. Sweat trickles down my cheeks as I bite my lip, but I dare not move my arm to wipe off a drip. In my periphery, the sea of people totters to and fro; it's almost as if we're invisible out here. It would only take one yelp of help for them to notice, but with a gun at my temple, I wouldn't do so much as a budge.

So far, there's not a single leather suit to be spotted among the ocean of threadbare clothes, but I know it won't be a matter of time before the thugs in the apartment march out in pursuit of more people with their mark. I need to get out of here. I will never join the revolt. The thought quickly lights up a plan in my head. Albeit unsure, I know I must try something out, so with a heavy breath and muted utterance of prayer, I start to part my lips.

"If you're going to shoot me right now, the army's going to lose one Morale that would've done something on the revolt for Pelnora; there'd be lives that would be spared by me that will rather end up dead if you click the trigger now. Would you let that happen?" I challenge him.

Staring up to meet his eyes, comes a quiver that falters his steady gaze and a fidget that kicks up upon his sturdy grip. Albeit for some reason, he's able to recover quickly from my words. Sweat drips from the locks that hang above his eyes down to the line that highlights his jaw. His grin fades then edges back into a smile.