Durst blocked the punch with his arm and dodged back a few steps—hitting the stone wall with his back. The force of his deflection knocked Alan off course, but he swung around again and threw another punch along with it. Godric turned and leaped back along the wall to slip out of reach, and Alan's fist slammed into stone. He screamed and drew back, and Durst leaped forward with a hard blow that landed square into Alan's gut.

The janitor doubled forward and scrambled backward, almost tripped over a stone, but stopped himself. Stood still then, staring at Godric, snarling.

"Stop it!" Durst roared.

Alan panted, terrified and enthralled—determined too—he spat, "I gotta get insight on you ta see if you're real... Only way ta know there's nothing wrong with me!"

Alan lunged then—both hands thrust to strangle—Durst ducked out of the way and dashed further into the ruined monasteries centre. Where pews would've once have stood row by row.

"I don't want to hurt you!" roared Godric.

"Fuck!" roared Alan. He grimaced with an angry pain and then turned to kick the wall once more. "Insight!"

The moment seized Godric—an ancient instinct pushed him then—he rushed forward and rammed Alan. His shoulder hit between the janitor's back blade's and he crashed into the wall with a whimper. Durst grabbed him then, trying to force him into a half-nelson, but the janitor wriggled out of it and landed a hard blow across Durst's chin when he spun. Followed it up immediately and slammed his mouth with the other, knocking Godric flat on his back—but he was up again as fast.

Alan threw another punch—Durst side-stepped it—and met the janitor's chin with an unrestrained upper-cut. This sent Alan crashing back with a howl before sprawling out on the grass, the cut chin bleeding again. He rolled over—but not to fight—screamed into the dirt instead. Got up to his knees and rubbed the wound, got blood on his fingers, and stared.

"No," he moaned. "It's black too... My blood's black!"

Alan's hand was in sunlight and this made the blood an almost effervescent red. Durst squinted at it, and him.

A quick hand smeared this against the wall before jumping to his feet and sprinting from the ruins—Alan slipped away between the smashed sections.

"Fuck you!" the howl came over the wall. "Fuck. You," it was repeated in a pained murmur followed by panting. "There's nothing wrong with me! I'll prove—I'll get insight on someone you mother fucker! They'll be wrong on the inside—not me!" that last word was said with heartbreak in his voice. Footsteps fled into branches and shadow.

For a moment Durst stood there—exhilarated by the fight—and then a fear grabbed him. He turned and sprinted—occurred to him he'd better beat Alan back along the path to avoid encountering him at his car.

But despite the rushing of wind playing tricks in the branches nearby he saw no sign of him—even when he crossed the field. Sat back in his car wondering what the fuck had just happened.

His instinct had been to call the police—Alan was dangerous and maybe had information on Steve—but now he sat steeping in blasted indecision. Alan was clearly having a mental health episode—or something—for had that not always lurked behind those ever-watching eyes? And what of Alan himself afterwards? Prison? Mental ward until the tax dollars run out?

And he'd hardly be fit to provide good information, and anything the police got from him on Steve would be called into question—rightly so. If things advanced to extremes no legal defense would allow him to testify without being assessed for mental fitness—and as he was now? Durst smacked the wheel—what the fuck was he supposed to do. Nothing seemed like it could help, and somewhat regretting his rough treatment of the man he decided he only wanted to help in future. But the path to this seemed lost.

-------------------------

650 words.

Vote.

IWJKeller.com