The Author is hunted, and he finds he doesn't enjoy the experience nearly as much from the other side.
Inspired by @thomothysdoodles and this drawing Thomothy did for Whumptober <3
Commission Info | Buy me a ko-fi
He didn’t have a pen. He didn’t have a notebook. All he had was a hunting knife that he’d been meaning to get around to sharpening. It was dull, and old, and hardly useful in a fight. And he was running.
He didn’t know what happened, or what was going on. One moment, he was at his desk, typing away on his typewriter, and the next, there was a gunshot. His favorite pen had exploded next to him, all over his notebook, sheared in half by the bullet lodged in the thick wood of his desk. The Author had bolted to his feet with a wordless shout, and then there was another shot, piercing the meat of his shoulder, and the Author had grabbed the first weapon within reach and ran.
There was a stitch burning in his side, his shoulder throbbed, but the Author just kept running. He dashed through the trees he knew like the back of his hand, scrambling to think of a hiding spot. Most proper ones he’d gotten rid of through the years to prevent characters from hiding, dammit, karma was a son of a bitch –
The stitch in his side grew too painful, and the Author stumbled, falling to the forest floor. His nose cracked off a small rock, and he cried out, just laying there for a moment, dazed, panting. A gunshot fired, dirt spraying next to his arm, and the Author yelped, scrambling back to his feet and bolting once again.
