Moisture condenses and drips slowly from the stone above, drumming a rhythmic plinking on the cave floor, far below. Aside from that sound, nothing is detectible to the human ear. Or eye.
He'd been hiding. Yes, for the last few moments, from immediate danger. This pitiful soul was hiding his whole life, though, and the pulse of blood thumping from chambers of his heart in time with the plink of the water dripping below seem to push the last sane brain cell he possesses out into the light, and over that edge to splatter on the rock.
Some never find an end to usurpations they can commit. No soul finds the strength, courage or ability to stop them. They take. They continue to take.
Arguments erupt in inner monologue. Breathing quickens. Survival dilates the pupils of an invisible third eye fluttering between, and just above, his ineffectual eyes.
Counting to one thousand in his head, he deigns it likely that the party in pursuit must have certainly, by now, moved on. As the thought forms in his head, however, the sound of footsteps ricochet in the distance off the cavernous walls. His lungs involuntarily paralyze until the sound fades and disappears in the distance.
...
Curt words drone from an acutely ugly man surrounded by smartly dressed people. They obediently hang on his every word. In the air, warm smells of bread and meat float on cooking smoke. He flares his nostrils. He complains. He demands food.
As if by magic, a plate appears, piled high with generous portions of variety. He winks and unceremoniously takes from the plate and eats. He eats daintily, yet greedily, allowing a moment between bites to chew and swallow before spewing critical words. His crowd devours his disrespect with the same vigorous appetite.
POP POP POP
Sound's speed is broken by a quick succession of lead sent in the direction of our speaker. He drops in a heap with a throaty groan. His usurpations end with no fanfare, save for the panicked noises people make when horror and fear overtake them.
Leaping through a window, and taking a curtain with him, a man lands in stride on the ground below. As he flees, he untangles himself from the cloth, nearly stumbling to the earth before righting himself and making for a nearby wood. In his wake, crushed velvet lies fluttering in the slight breeze... and a man lies motionless in the midst of a group of shocked and appalled onlookers.
...
Distance makes transgressions less pressing on the mind of the transgressor. Deep in the recesses of grey matter folds, it presses, however. And curdles. And stagnates. And, eventually, rots.
Dreams remind the subconscious. Some nagging sense always plays tell-tale heart, even in the happiest of moments. If death doesn't find one unexpectedly, the tale will tell itself at some point.
Sunlight striking a wall a certain way... A sound... a shade of color... many things can suddenly end reverie, ushering in a memory... and dread.
In these times, a decision is often required. Spill the beans? If yes, how? If no, what new mental device will be required to keep the contents from spilling out involuntarily?
...
Climbing out of the cave, squinting eyes against the light make out no forms, human or otherwise. Persistent against the will of time, life continues. Finally, a breath. Then, another. The sun warms.
