Key

The key was small, almost looked as if it were painted in fake gold. It didn’t gleam, but that’s the thing about gold, it doesn’t, except for in movies. It was cold to the touch, vibrating a little, as if humming to the sound of its own music. He could smell desire coming out from it. He wondered what it tasted like, he had always wanted to taste gold. It was supposed to make you more potent. Right now, he didnt have the time. He was running as arrows were raining down all around him. Whizzing past, a few narrowly missing him, good thing the archers were such bad shots. The arrows though, would splice through him, if they made a mark. He had seen one cut through a huge stone as he ran past it. Ouch. He stubbed his foot on a stone, closed his eyes, shook his head, and kept running. He could see red in front of him, but in fear of seeing the crimson spurting out of him, he pushed past the pain and ran onwards.

Ever since he had been a boy, he had felt this urge to walk in one direction. A very specific direction, up north. He had been born in a magical town, in a magical time, a time when people still believed in fairies, and monsters, and grandfathers claimed to have seen dragons in their youth. But the human disease was spreading, and soon all magical things would met their end, pushed out of their humans, ceased to be believed in, driven out by the cold hard facts of science. He had been drawn by a magnetism to leave the city, always in the same direction, and as he grew up, he would often find himself staring towards those gates. One day he was reading a book, stories about heroes, and they always left. So he wrote a letter for his parents, and out he went. He left the big building they resided in, and he left. He walked and walked and walked. Until one day, he woke up, and the direction was gone. The magnetism, gone. He could not be where he was supposed to be. This was an empty plain. Nothing to be seen for miles around, no grass, just pebbles and mud. The ground was hazy in front of him, the sun blinding in front of his eyes. He cried and hit the ground, and moaned and wailed. This was what the stories didn’t mention, all those people that thought they were heroes and weren’t. That failed. It felt weird. The ground. He hoped it would suddenly move, and something would come out, it didn’t. His spine tingled, he felt someone behind him. He turned around, no one was there. Straining to see past his tears. He wiped them away, trying to keep the rest at bay, spun around, gasping, sniffing, no one was there in the plains. Nothing, not a bird, not a beast. It was behind him again, he turned, saw nothing. He looked down, he saw it’s shadow, not there, he turned around, not there. It kept following him. It was within him, the shadow. He was the base. At that moment, he went mad. He grabbed a large stone from within, and killed himself.

He awoke bleeding from his chest, his shadow was no longer present, it felt odd not having a shadow. Instead of the rock, there was a golden key in his hand. He felt a presence behind him. A tower was looming where there was none. People preparing to shoot arrows. Three archers. Hooded. He raised his hands, they were slow. Tried calling out. The first of the arrows landed near him. He had started to run.

Phew, that last one was a close one. Then he felt it. He heard it first. The squishing coming out of his chest, splicing through it. He toppled forwards, key still in hand. Polished boots approached him, clank, clank, clank. A cane poked him, and then grabbed the handle of the key, and handed it to its owner.