As he dragged his feet on the ground, under the red sky, there was a chill in the air.
The moon slowly rising from underneath the horizon far away, somewhere in the unknown. The clouds were dark, tinted to the shade of the land, as if betrayed by the rays of the sun. The air pressed down thick and still. With each step, he sunk deeper into the sand underneath, slowly fading into a dark night sky, starry and almost glamorous, with a calm and almost refreshing evening breeze gliding above the rocky filled land—a scene of quiet. Amidst that was the repetitive sound of footsteps in the sand, the footsteps of a mouse… a mouse on a journey of revenge.
Dried up lips, sour eyes, he had bruises all over his body, his clothes were covered in blood, and his scarf was all torn up. Looking into his eyes was nothing but hollow emptiness. Even with all this, it was as if he felt nothing, as if he was an empty shell with no sense of hurt.
His feet had grown sore and numb as they battled against the grains of sand, trying to keep up with his resolve, and his knees were as if locked in place. Each step was a struggle; his body had given up a long time ago. All that was keeping him moving was his resolve.
Walking in the desert wasteland, he had but only one thing on his mind—revenge.
The wind slowly whispers, as a drop of water hits the sand. Tears began to run down his face; there was a lump in his throat, almost as if he was trying to hold back his tears. His pain was emotional; his body was going through physical pain, but his emotional one outweighed that. He kept moving, not with strength, but with pain. His pain was what kept him going—his anguish, his determination—in a physical sense of nothing.
Long after, the battle against the elements grew tougher as time progressed. His pace slowed… the sand grew heavier with every step.
And in the middle of nowhere… he collapsed—lost, alone, at the mercy of predators.
