Running. Running. Running. So much damn running. His lungs hurt — burn actually — or maybe that’s because of the other thing…

Then…a poke. A searing hot, painful, make you scream like a banshie kind of poke. Mmm, more like a stab actually. Yeah, that’s sounds about right.

Anyway, he got poked — stabbed — whatever. The next thing he knows is that he’s stumbling, body hot and heavy. Legs failing him as he trips over himself and splays out over the cold, hard ground below.

There’s lights…so many. Have those always been there? Wait, wait, yeah they definitely have. He remembers being blinded by them every other day. So is he dying or not? These mixed signals are not it, that’s for sure.

The picture becomes clearer when he blinks open his eyes once more and is actually able to lift his head, where he lies it on his shoulder. Brows raise, eyes go wide.

That’s blood. Mhm. Definitely mine too. He thinks. There’s a lot. It pools beneath him, messy, sticky, dark. It doesn’t really hurt anymore though. Wonder why that is.

And then they come — weird alien beings with ice for eyes — clear and menacing. Their long circular snouts have always scared him.

Ahh, yeaaah. He remembers.

They surround him, one kneels down, and with odd, long looking paws, clicks something to his neck. The chain there tightens and pulls, crosses painfully over his trachea and stifles his already straining breath.

The glass eyed being stands, hoping Maddox would go with. He can’t.

A whine falls high in his throat, followed by a panting choke. His maw as wide as it can go, tongue falling flat — a disgusting five inches from his chin. Another pull, another choke, has him wretching. More blood splatters before him, drips from his jaws. He feels sick.

Things are spoken — words of some kind. He knows he would understand them in any other circumstance, but now? Nah. He’s got no fucking clue what they’re saying. Why can’t they let him die in peace? Is that too much to ask? Apparently.

And so with another pull of his collar, his body is forced up, but not of his own accord. He hangs from it — a noose. Tragic really. Yet, with shaking limbs, the momentum of the pull has his paws landing beneath him. He sways, the chain loosens. He breathes. Fuck.

Can I just die already?

Nah, that’d be too easy. Okay. Aight. I see you.

So Maddox hangs his heavy head, blurry vision looking down between forepaws just to find that same pool of crimson. So pretty. Orrrr maybe not. But more alarming is the way it drip, drip, drips, from the wound in his side. It spills and spills — it keeps going.

Holy fuck.

Should he be dead yet?

And with this tired, fuzzy, numb panic, he lifts his head high. Muzzle to the sky, his neck a straight line to his chest and legs. He gazes — stares — at the being with glass eyes. They stare back. Their breathing is heavy, rasping, and staticky. Are they dying too? He hopes so.

And then…

“Maddox —“

That’s the only word he gets. The only word that really sticks.

That’s me. He says delightfully in his hazy brain equal to the static in their voices.

“Wake up.”

And like that he’s heaving in a breath as if it was both his first and his last. It rattles in his chest as he flies up from the soft moss beneath him. There he pants, covered in the splotchy moonlight — he breathes.

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

Fuck.

“Fuck-“ He huffs. It’s strained, just as raspy as their voices.

But they’re not there. No one is actually. It’s just him, the moon, and that beautiful lady they call Mother Nature.

He looks down. There’s no blood.

“Huh…?” His breathing comes quick — panicked. “Huh…?”

He’s alive. And for the first time, he realizes that he might just be free.