Theoi : Rising (SUPER EDITING)

A Change in Tempo

*** A/N Due to my dissatisfaction with this chapter and the character. They were rewritten to flow better. Things have changed since it was first published.  ***

Marek Callaway was a Deadpan Snarker, blessed with the ability to produce a couple of one liner for any given occasion. Though he was blessed with the ability to be 'The Daria' currently, Marek wished that this skill would be of use to him right now, because he was running for his life. 

 ******

Summer was his favourite season; it was the season of life. There was always something on. He would spend his morning listening to musicians in the park, walking through his beloved city and there was some kind of festival on. Usually he went with his friends before returning home for lunch with his mother and father. His mother adamant to have them all together, especially now since his sister was off to college, at least once a day.

Marek turned the opened the backdoor of his home continuing his daily summer ritual. He pulled one ear bud out of his ear and turned the volume down on his iPhone. He managed to push the door open with the other. "Mom?" the teen called. Oddly he received no answer, ignoring it he tried again. "Mom!" Moving past some boxes, a laundry hamper, a mop, broom and a bucket all haphazardly thrown down. He stumbled into the kitchen, where he saw his mother.

Still as a statue Isabella Callaway sat at the kitchen table. She seemed to have not registered her son's presence instead staring into the yellow wall. An ice cold cup of coffee rested in her hands in such a grip that might develop cracks in the porcelain. The room was surprisingly dark, grey and dull. That wasn't right. "Are you alright?" her son asked and yet no reply. Inching forward Marek, then crouched at his mother's side and shook her arm. A bubbling sensation of panic was rising up from the pit of his stomach. He griped her arm for what felt like hours. It took two attempts for Marek to find his voice again; it sounded forced with a few breaks here and there. He focused on his mother's ring.

 "You shouldn't be here." Her voice was hollow and stayed fixed on the the wall.

 "Mom, are you-"

 "You shouldn't be here."

Marek pulled away from his mother. "I live here," he answered and began with a slight stutter "Why wouldn't I live here?!" Yet she remained as still and unmoving as a statue. "Mom?" he called again. Marek pulled her chair out from the table, her hands dropped to her sides and the coffee spilt and pooled on the table top. The son cupped his mother's face gently, as if she'd break with the slightest application of pressure. He searched and studied her face for any recognition of his fiery mother and not this empty husk before him. Marek was very much like his mother, tanned olive skin, black hair that graced his shoulders that could only be described as a mess, same straight nose and thin face. Everything else was his father's, his green eyes in particular, where what his mother said she loved most. His mother wasn't looking at him, telling him to leave and the anger boiled his blood faster than fear.

"MOM! LOOK AT ME!"  He shook her slightly. Her brown eyes made a connection, but by God, they were soulless. Nothing like the way he saw her this morning.

"Leave, Marek." She simply stated. "Your bag has things you'll."

Things, he thought, where the hell am I GOING?! He let go of his mother, "Aren't you coming?"

 "No. It's not safe for you," she said still empty and still different. "Go to Harrow city, tesoro mio."

Some kind of warmth caused a weak smile to grace the young man's features. He embraced her clinging to his mother like a new born. Marek understood, something deep down, deeper then he thought imaginable, something stirred, he was to leave here, to go to Harrow. His mother wrapped her arms around him and somehow managed to put something around his neck. Her cornicello. "Please go."

 ******

Then it all went from to Hell from there. A train ticket was packed away within his bag and decided to start his journey to Harrow with that. Marek walked out of the estate, taking in small details it possessed. However as soon as Marek was in the outer limits of the city it was then had something started to follow him. Marek had seen a blur out of the corner of his eye. “Well if that isn’t like every horror movie ever.”

This continued for a few minutes constantly spotting glances of a blur darting back and forth from the corner of his eyes.

Marek wetted his lips, forgetting how his mouth became so dry. He was debating the idea of buying a bottle of water. What he didn’t notice the six foot hellhound behind him? A large Doberman/boxer mix looking canine, fierce and imposing it stalked Marek for days after picking up his scent. Only know had it chosen to reveal itself. The prey made a mistake of turning his back to the hunter. The hellhound crouched and lunged forward. Marek stepped aside as if on signal and managed to glimpse the black and brown creature. Startled he turned on his heel and ran face to face with a hellhound.

 "WHAT THE HELL IS THAT THING?!" Marek yelled at the demonic Doberman in front of him. Despite it being a dog it possessed reptilian legs and tail, like that mattered. The size was enough to draw attention; it was clearly six feet tall. The hellhound bared its teeth and its putrid breath was a thousand times worse than the occasional carcass that washed up on the shore at the beach his friend Skylar had shown him once. Then Marek ran and the Doberman hellhound chased after him. This race continued for what seemed like an hour, constantly changing paces from quick to fast, jumping over fences and quickly dashing in the opposite direction. However much to Marek’s disdain his legs got caught up and resulted in a fall. His face was practically implanted into the ground and with a groan he turned over, resting up on his elbows. Slowly the hellhound crept up till it glowered at him, baring one of the sharpest set of teeth Marek had ever seen on a dog. “Nice doggy,” Marek smiled weakly.

In a heartbeat the hellhound lunged at Marek, but he somehow managed to grasp the oversized mutt’s neck and pushed him back, only slightly. He could hear the chomp of the mutt’s teeth. This almost pointless struggled made every muscle Marek had ached; even the ones that he never knew existed. His hands gripped at the fur but they were still fumbling and unsure. They overlapped each other, they were strangely warm. All of a sudden when the hellhound’s grip pulled back, much to Marek's surprise, he looked closer at the mutt. Something was happening to it, as it began violently thrashing its head. The smell of something burning caught in his nostrils, and deep whimpers and cries emerge from its maw. Marek spied bright embers burning against the fur of the hellhound and naturally into the dog's neck and throat. It thrashed violently, as the embers most definitely burned deeper into its skin. A few drops of what Marek presumed were blood dropped on top of him and it was not long after before the hellhound collapsed on top of him. Dead.  

It took what felt like an age and a half to move the mutt off him. He felt winded, aching and exhausted. Cleaning the blood of his face, Marek groaned, he still had a long way to go. Marek took off like a rabbit when his legs found stability. He readjusted his much squished bag and went back to his journey to the train station, holding his cornicello tight. Hoping its protective charms might start working now.

Run, Mousêgetês, a woman's voice echoed, Run.