Alex clung to the wall, like a frame hanging on a hook. He closed his eyes slowly breathing in the tenebrosity. He opened his eyes to see Clayton and Fulton at his side.
"Are you done meditating?" Clayton asked.
"I'm going upstairs," Alex muttered. His moist hands clutched the tire iron he got out of his trunk.
Clayton nudged Alex to move, "I'm with you."
"I'll stay down here." Fulton hissed. "Remember, The Artist is two. The Visionary and The Executioner. Determine quickly which one you have."
Alex nodded while Clayton forged ahead.
Alex clung tight to the stair rail. His heart throbbed harder with each stair he climbed. He'd been here before, walking into death's sanctuary. It's dwelling of grim tranquilities. It's mumblings of nothingness bouncing off the walls sowing your lips shut with the thread of fright and the needle terror.
Self-preservation was what Alex yearned but what he sought lay here, in the atelier of destruction. It was love that made him forge deeper in the darkness, her love that made him trek down the hallway.
Clayton stopped. Alex ran into him. He shoved Alex off his back with an elbow. Alex jumped back. Clayton pointed to the light burning, leaking from a room at the end of the hall like the North Star illuminating the night's sky.
"No." Alex mouthed. "Trap."
Clayton waved him off stepping further down the hall. He moved like a jaguar sulking his prey, gently placing one foot in front of the other as if the floor was made of paper-thin glass. His right hand draped around the handle of the gun as his left cradled the bottom as if it was a cup of warm tea. He stood in front of the door, pulled back his trigger finger and a boom exploded.
Alex cupped his ears concentrating on the ringing that whistle in his head. He backed up into the darkness, deeper into the void. He hit against something and his balance gave way knocking him to the floor. The tire iron rattled to the floor.
"Who's there?"
What do you think tripped Alex?
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