Michael's Escape

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"The past is never where you think you left it."

― Katherine Anne Porter

Michael's Escape,

Michael had a horrible feeling in the pits of his chest right from the moment he awoke early that morning. And only had it grown significantly as the hours gradually passed on.

He reacted as anyone in his position would. Michael became careful, even more than usual and that is a great feet. He became cautious to whom he spoke to, drifting in and out of thought as he questioned and sorted through out all of his memories from the past few months. He had even gone as far as pack all important belongings into a single bag by the door.

Michael knew he had to leave, and soon, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it, not before it was too late.

With no indoor heating and a very open windowed house a cool draft blew in softly, although Michael didn't even shiver. Just rolled his shoulder blades in a happy sort of manner and gave a relaxed sigh. Then his instincts perked up as his stomach gave a horrible, terrifying lurch. Dread sunk through him like a sunken ship. The smell of cinders met his nose, the scent so strong he sneezed and coughed, acting as though he was spluttering out smoke. And eventually, he was.

Eyes widening he stumbled for his backpack. 'They're were burning down his home'. And indeed they were, flames licked against the walls, raking the ceiling and consuming the oxygen at a rapid rate. Rushing to the minibar he pulled out a jar of ice, then the cold was upon his side once more. Drawing in it's strength he threw the ice over the wall, and a thin sheet suddenly appeared in slow motion as the ice reformed. Grabbing a poker beside the empty fire-place - something that hadn't been used in a very long time - he slammed the object into the frozen sheet of liquid. And it crumbled and broke apart as he tore through the wall and into the yard, eyes hardened and in a silent rage.

Yelling in fury he called upon the ice and slammed a hail stone into the monster before him. It stumbled back dumbly, howling in pain. A blind anger took over Michael. "How dare you attack me you filthy beasts" he roared. Kicking the underside of the monster's knee he threw a wild punch at his enemy's stomach, the crunch of his hand against flesh snapped through the air and blood ran freely from his bruised knuckles. The attacker wheezed and collapsed at Michael's feet.

Spinning on the balls of his feet Michael met the other monster head on, crushing the incoming fist with a loud crack and causing the intruder cry out in agony. Michael then sent frostbite all the way to his shoulder and the man screamed pathetically in agony. "Yeah it burns doesn't it, you son of a bitch".

Despite the pain the man responded with eyes of blaring with fierce hate. "Your all going to die".

"Not before you" Michael promised, and a thin blade of ice formed at his palm, a blade as sharp as the form it took. Slicing his neck with the sword the blood dripped against the grass. And the man of fire thudded heavily to the ground. Dead.

Blade in hand he turned quickly, shoving it in the next attackers chest and kicking the other one away. Picking the final man by his throat Michael slammed him into the brick wall of his house. Well, what was remaining of his house. "Where is the next target?" He demanded, the man choked, blood dripping from his lips as he wriggled under Michael's grip.

"I won't tell you, filth!" He spat in disgust, but pain clouded his anger. He moaned.

"You will, or I will give you so much pain you will beg for mercy" he waited for the man to speak, but when he did not Michael continued, a hardness and sick cruelty to his voice "I wonder, how long does it take for one such as yourself to suffer and slowly die from frostbite. Would you like to find out?"

The man gulped, averting his cowardly eyes from Michael's icy stare. "A girl named Raissa Leeway, she's in Canada, but your too late, there on her tail now-" he paused to give him a horrible sadistic grin. "-they like this one, going to make her death long, their going to rip her throat out an-"

He was dead before he hit the ground, leaving Michael with nothing but the torment of and remembrance of what he was, what he had always been. A killer.

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