Better Things Ahead || Stelios and Basil
âThere are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind.â ~ C.S. Lewis
America.  Being here almost felt like a dream to the artist.  Who knew⊠maybe it was? He still wasnât truly certain heâd survived Dorianâs attack.  Maybe he was still dying.  Maybe his mind had created all of this - his resurrection, his flight from London, his journey here to New York.  He really had no other explanation for what happened to him.  One moment Dorian was stabbing at him, blood everywhere, and the next he awoke atop his own grave, MANY months later according to papers which spoke of his disappearance. Â
And so Basil had decided to do just what the papers claimed.  Disappear.  Only not to Paris as many suspected, but to America - a place where he was certain few who might recognize him would go.  After all, Americans werenât seen as âhigh societyâ in London, no matter how much money they had.  He would be relatively safe here for awhile⊠or so he hoped.  The artist hadnât brought much of anything with him, not as far as items were concerned, only a very well-hidden stash of money.  Upon his arrival, he booked into a modest boarding house and paid for a full yearâs stay.  Exorbitant?  Perhaps.  But he soon hoped to be painting again, and he certainly had plenty of money to tide him over until then.
Then, because Basil found himself curious about the city, he decided to do a bit of exploring.  Heâd thought, being London-born, that heâd have no trouble with the streets of New York City.  After all, it was a large city like any other⊠or so he thought.  At first, it was easy.  Basil wandered a bit, stopped into a restaurant near his new home, had a fine meal, and then just kept walking.  However, it wasnât long before he found himself far more lost than heâd intended.  Admittedly, he hadnât been all that focused on his steps.  His mind kept wandering back to his current predicament⊠the impossibility of it!  And yet, was it impossible?  After what Dorian had revealed to him, was anything impossible?  It was these musings that found the artist suddenly and unexpectedly in what looked to be a very unsavory part of town.
Basil tried to shrink into the shadows, but he knew he looked out of place here⊠even in the dusky darkness of sunset.  He needed to find someone who looked trustworthy⊠someone who could lead him back to where he needed to be.  Surely there were police about in a place like this?  All he had to do was⊠ There was a scuffle of a foot behind him, and Basilâs mind went flashing back to his death - the sound of Dorianâs footsteps stirring up attic dust, the pain of the palette knife as it sank into his neck over and over again.  The artist whirled - and that was the only thing that saved him as an arm reached out to grab at his throat.  With a sharp cry of alarm, Basil turned and ran.  But where to go?!  He didnât know!  Should he call for help?  Would anyone come?  There!  Up ahead he could hear music and flickering lights!  A tavern, perhaps?  But then he realized the footsteps had stopped.  Had his pursuer given up?  Basil slowed a little, but kept moving towards the noise ahead. He didnât make it. A dark figure lunged from an alley in front of him and Basil drew back with a sharp gasp of panicked fear. Â
âWas gonna let ya live,â came a breathless growl. Â âBut now, I donât much feel like it.â
Trying to dart past him, the maneuver failed as an arm shot out, grabbing the artist hard and then slamming him into the nearest wall; his vision swam dangerously.  Oh God!  Not again!  He fell to his hands and knees and received several swift kicks to his ribs, then another to his head.  âPlease!â he cried - as loudly has he could - hoping someone from the tavern might hear him despite the noises of merry-making.  âPlease donât do this!â  More kicks until Basil was on his side in the muck of the street, groaning.  Hands rifled through his clothes⊠doubtless looking for money that wasnât there - heâd only taken enough for dinner and tipped very generously.
âNothing?!â the voice growled, sounding incredulous. Â âNot even a single cent? Â Whaâ sorta dandy are you?!â Â
Basil wasnât really listening, he was focusing all of his energy on what he was about to do, preparing himself for the pain it would cause his now-broken ribs.  Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he shouted as loudly as he could manage, âSomeone please help me!â  It was the last thing he did.  He hadnât seen the knife. Not before that point.  In fact, given the beating heâd just received, the artist had assumed his assailant was unarmed.  It flashed out, slicing across his throat.  The artist felt as if he were drowning in his own blood as he tried to gasp⊠to talk⊠to do anything!  Was it really the end this timeâŠ?  He supposed, as his vision dimmed, he was about to find out.
@leatherandsoil
