One: Opening Act
I ran and ran some more. Through these damp and dark alleyways I run; running away from Satan's resident sadist. I don't know how long I was running; it must've been an hour already. At any given time, I could fall down, given the amount of blood leaking from my side, like a broken faucet spouting water uncontrollably. I also fear the possibility of infection, because I had been doused in this tub of putridity earlier. The scent of blood and the rancid trail I am leaving as I flee served as an indelible marking, which leads my pursuers' hounds to my faltering body.
I took one more step and a wave of mortality swept over me. I felt a portion of my soul escape my fragile body. But I mustn’t die like an insect under a heavy boot—and another wave, one of adrenaline, swept upon me and somehow, my senses were heightened. Because I paused for two golden seconds, my pursuers gained on me. I could hear their rabid dogs barking in a frenzied rage from a distance. Using all the remaining strength in me, I made a mad dash towards the end of the alleyway, where the happy sparkling city awaits, unwary of the cries of the oppressed.
“There’s the dog!” I heard the foreign devil shout in his native tongue.
I then heard the leashes dragged upon the damp alley as the dogs were ordered to run after me. I tried to pick up speed, hoping that the city lights would bring salvation upon me, to spare me of this hell.
Bark. Bark.
The dogs sprint, excited by the prospect of an easy prey.
Splash. Splash.
My heavy feet crashed on the little brown puddles on the alley floor as I near the warmth of the city lights.
Yelp. Splash.
I looked back as a dog yelped. One of the three dogs slipped on a puddle and splashed. He tried to regain footing, but the dog slipped again.
BANG.
“Stupid dog!” growled the foreigner as he shot the fallen dog, his loyal servant.
I was a few steps away from the light, and as my frail frame touched the light, I felt a searing sensation in my left calf, and I was pulled to the ground by powerful jaws of two Doberman dogs.
The city folk looked as they saw me being mauled by the dogs. I had a glimpse of their eyes, and they weren’t concerned about me; they were merely scared. Scared because the dogs might turn their attention to them or pieces of my tattered flesh might splatter all over their expensive clothing. Pfah, this city folk! They are worse than the dogs themselves! A high-pitched whistle rang through the chatter of the city night, and the dogs released me and sat upright. From the dark alleyway came their master, the foreigner with his brown shirt clinging to his pale skin because of sour-smelling sweat. The fat foreigner huffed and panted, because he wasn’t used to running for he had servants to do his bidding for him.
“You wretched rat!” the foreigner said in my native tongue, with his thick foreign accent painting the words with a heavy coat of bigotry.
The foreigner took a moment to catch his breath, and from his belt holster, he drew a pistol, cocked it and pointed it between my eyes. I was sweating cold, but I wasn’t afraid; I was going to die anyway.
“Ungrateful pig,” he muttered in his own language, unremorseful, as though he was about to kill a fly. As Jacques the foreigner slowly squeezed the trigger, I closed my eyes and I remembered how this nightmare began.
--The Stage Director.
I ran and ran some more. Through these damp and dark alleyways I run; running away from Satan's resident sadist. I don't know how long I was running; it must've been an hour already. At any given time, I could fall down, given the amount of blood leaking from my side, like a broken faucet spouting water uncontrollably. I also fear the possibility of infection, because I had been doused in this tub of putridity earlier. The scent of blood and the rancid trail I am leaving as I flee served as an indelible marking, which leads my pursuers' hounds to my faltering body.
I took one more step and a wave of mortality swept over me. I felt a portion of my soul escape my fragile body. But I mustn’t die like an insect under a heavy boot—and another wave, one of adrenaline, swept upon me and somehow, my senses were heightened. Because I paused for two golden seconds, my pursuers gained on me. I could hear their rabid dogs barking in a frenzied rage from a distance. Using all the remaining strength in me, I made a mad dash towards the end of the alleyway, where the happy sparkling city awaits, unwary of the cries of the oppressed.
“There’s the dog!” I heard the foreign devil shout in his native tongue.
I then heard the leashes dragged upon the damp alley as the dogs were ordered to run after me. I tried to pick up speed, hoping that the city lights would bring salvation upon me, to spare me of this hell.
Bark. Bark.
The dogs sprint, excited by the prospect of an easy prey.
Splash. Splash.
My heavy feet crashed on the little brown puddles on the alley floor as I near the warmth of the city lights.
Yelp. Splash.
I looked back as a dog yelped. One of the three dogs slipped on a puddle and splashed. He tried to regain footing, but the dog slipped again.
BANG.
“Stupid dog!” growled the foreigner as he shot the fallen dog, his loyal servant.
I was a few steps away from the light, and as my frail frame touched the light, I felt a searing sensation in my left calf, and I was pulled to the ground by powerful jaws of two Doberman dogs.
The city folk looked as they saw me being mauled by the dogs. I had a glimpse of their eyes, and they weren’t concerned about me; they were merely scared. Scared because the dogs might turn their attention to them or pieces of my tattered flesh might splatter all over their expensive clothing. Pfah, this city folk! They are worse than the dogs themselves! A high-pitched whistle rang through the chatter of the city night, and the dogs released me and sat upright. From the dark alleyway came their master, the foreigner with his brown shirt clinging to his pale skin because of sour-smelling sweat. The fat foreigner huffed and panted, because he wasn’t used to running for he had servants to do his bidding for him.
“You wretched rat!” the foreigner said in my native tongue, with his thick foreign accent painting the words with a heavy coat of bigotry.
The foreigner took a moment to catch his breath, and from his belt holster, he drew a pistol, cocked it and pointed it between my eyes. I was sweating cold, but I wasn’t afraid; I was going to die anyway.
“Ungrateful pig,” he muttered in his own language, unremorseful, as though he was about to kill a fly. As Jacques the foreigner slowly squeezed the trigger, I closed my eyes and I remembered how this nightmare began.
--The Stage Director.
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