From some tangle of stray wires in the ceiling, the flashing neon sign of the ‘Motel 6’ shone sickly green into Roland’s tiny, sweaty room. It was not an apartment, not really. Just some short term sanctuary, the worst hotel room in town far from home, far from anything that resembled his old life. There was a heavy smell of stenchless cigarettes, cheap anti-decontamination. An unmade bed, a chipped dresser, a single, grimy window glaring out over a murky, damp alleyway... this was his haven.He lay slouch at the edge of the bed, fidgeting in his hand a bottle of cheap whiskey which was half empty, the burn in his throat a warm distraction from the agonizing fear in his gut. Max. The orphanage. The kids. It took over all his mind - an annoying game.“How… how did he even get in there?” Roland muttered to himself, taking another long swig. “That charity thing… that’s high society. Max is just… a kid from the dorms. How did he get mixed up in this?” He shook his head, a bitter laugh esc

They traversed a maze of bends and curves, the route sometimes leading to tiny, tight niches, then constricting once more. Every step was intentional, careful, with heightened senses, listening intently for any noise, any indication of being found. The minutes elongated into forever.At last, a dim shard of light emerged in front, increasing in brightness gradually. The air started to move, crisp and refreshing, bringing the subtle aroma of wet soil and evening atmosphere. They had arrived at a ground-level exit, a sturdy, locked service door, evidently not used for many years."Nearly… nearly there!" Roland whispered, his tone laced with a frantic urgency. He fell to his knees, his hands already frantically attempting to loosen the heavy, rusted bolts. His hands, typically so dexterous, struggled with the frigid metal. Moisture formed on his brow, even with the refreshing breeze. The bolts creaked, pushing against it, then gradually, painfully, started to move backward.Sarah was pos

Domingo came out of his chair – his movements unhurried, careful. He approached Roland – the precious leather soles of his expensive shoes rubbing furtively against the marble floor – each step like a hammer hitting Sarah’s heart. He drew near to Roland’s foresightless frame, extended a foot forward – his well-polished custom-made shoe hanged over the top of his head.“You thought you would be able to fight me? ” Domingo muttered, his voice low and full of poison. He lodged his foot on Roland’s head and grinded it into the marble with all intents and purposes. “You are nothing, you are a common street dog. And you will learn your lesson. .Sarah cried out, a strangled sound of pure anguish, her chair scraping loudly as she pushed back. “Stop it! Please, stop!” She started to rush forward, her hands outstretched, but her father’s hand shot out, gripping her arm like an iron vise.““Don’t Sarah! ” he whispered, his voice ringing with desperate need to be heard. “There is no point in it!

The hospital wing in the Donxiote mansion was a case of worlds colliding. Outside, a dark & opulent life buzzed about the mansion; inside this very sleek hotel an awful silence lay over the place, interrupted by the clanging *beep-beep-beep* of the medical monitors and that clumsy but at times unobtrusive noise of an oxygen machine. It was a quiet place, spotlessly clean, slightly antiseptic and smelling of something metallic – to Sarah, perhaps a mist of fear or simply the cold reality of modern medical equipment. Sarah had found her new prison, a bright cage with views of her father’s slow & agonizing struggle.She laid down by his bed, holding a white pillar of despair in her hand, then swallowed by his, which lay pale and limp on the crisp white sheet. His face once always ruddy and full of life had become ashen, the track of pain with an arrow drawn through each line. A clear tube ascended down his nose, carrying a steady flow of oxygen, and an IV drip, an invisible stream of a c

He watched the hall at the Donxiote mansion, a hall that he typically occupied for political inaugurations and nights spent in high society costume shops. It was filled to capacity, and draped in white, with sweeps of white silk. The lighting was from hundreds of fairy lights; the green was slowly bathed in the soft light of hundreds of lights twisted together into thousands of little flowers. Lilies, their heavy scent, wholly sweet and delicious, filled the air, the fragrance combined with the slightest hint of beeswax polish and expensive champagne. A long aisle laid down of ivory went straight to a pedestal stand with huge white roses and the flickering candelabras. It seemed an image for a fairytale.Nevertheless for Sarah it was the descent into a living nightmare.She stood at the threshold of the ballroom, dazzling in her exquisite white dress, and almost suffocating in its tightness. All of the delicate lace, the delicate beadwork, the long flowing veil, all were exquisite, ma