#ruinfell

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     Freedomtasted like blood.

     Themetallic taste was heavy in his mouth. The dust was heavier still. Hewondered, even, if it was really blood and not some strange magicsubstance that made up monsters. Did they all have it? Or was hereally tasting his own blood and didn't realize he was bleeding?

     Thethought made him l a u g h.

     Theroom remained dark but he didn't need a light. He could see the messon the floor. He could tell the room was in shambles, but his gazecould focus on nothing. Nothing but the dust upon the ground.

     Hecould feel it coating him. He felt it beneath his feet. It made himgiddy. He was dead. Hewas dead dead DEAD dead dead! Haha!

     Hecould almost dance. He could yell in outrage. He went to his kneesand placed his hands on the floor, rubbing them through as if wishingfor just one more remaining substance. Just one more scream. Did hescream? He wasn't sure. He didn't remember. He didn't rememberanything. Not how he did it. Not how it happened. Just a blinding,uncontrollable rage. He never even thought it through. He couldn't.That was the trick. That was how he got away with it.

     Abitter regret, for he wanted to enjoy it. But that was the price tobe paid. Yet he'd never felt so alive.He brought the hands to his face and felt the tears that were there--or was that also blood?-- and yet he was laughing. Why did he need tocry when he felt so happy?

     Hestood. He couldn't stay here. They'll be coming soon. In time,perhaps, some of themwill pay, too.

     Butnot now.

     Now,he needed to leave. Now, he'll finally walk free. Besian had beenright about one thing.