Chapter 7 – Escape!

Gobby lay on the ground in the alley. His body trembled in convulsions.

From the outside, it looked like a seizure – sharp, jerking spasms that contorted his limbs and clenched his jaw.

Above him loomed Drogo, still as a predator ready to strike. Above them circled crows – dark, swirling, frantic – as if pulled from some ancient omen. Their cries carved through the air.

Let’s step into the mind of Gobby – a boy caught in a moment of crisis – and see what happens when everything inside begins to fail. Step inside – into the heart of his mind – and witness what should have saved him… break.
Beneath the shaking body – behind the eyes – an invisible mechanism starts to malfunction.
Inside, the system tries to respond. And fails.

Eight mental maps emerge from the dark.

They float in space like translucent panels. Not memories – not images – but behavior prototypes.
His consciousness functions as a choice interface – a cognitive-behavioral system built from prior critical experiences.

Each model is structured around three silent rules:

1. The type of critical situation
2. Environmental and social variables – number of people, their roles, location, visible objects and threats
3. A set of responses that once worked when fear hit hardest

In normal moments, his mind would scan these models like a gamer’s cursor, hovering over options, searching for a match.
Then: click.
And the right behavior would launch.

BUT NOT THIS TIME.

The cursor skips. Jitters. Slides from one pattern to another. It tries to settle – fails. Clicks again. Nothing happens.

Again. Faster. Frantic.

No response. No activation.

Thin cracks begin to spread across the first panel. Then the next. One of them shatters. Another stutters – light breaking, form collapsing, and then it’s gone.

Then – all eight explode into fragments. A scatter of puzzle pieces.

The mechanism is gone. The system is broken. The mind – split.

From the outside, Gobby freezes.

But within – the lights go out.

And from that blackness, fragments begin to rise. Not full memories. Just flashes.

A white hospital corridor. A green lawn. People walking – some in white coats, others in blue uniforms. A doctor talking to a small boy. A woman crying, her hands over her face. A man beside her, trying to console her. A hallway. A huge man passing by. A shadow looming above. A child playing with a Rubik’s cube. A younger Gobby.

Then stillness.

Then one final image.

Slower than all the rest.

Small hands release the Rubik’s cube. It falls. Turns. Descends. Shatters against the floor.

And then – a scream.

A child’s scream. Long. Piercing. Raw with terror.

Outside, in the alley, Gobby begins to scream.

He thrashes violently, tears his arms from Drogo’s grip, and clamps his hands over his ears  as if trying to block out the entire world.

– Yes… it’s him… yes, yes – the scent is stronger now…
The voice of Drogo’s essence trembled in excitement.

Drogo’s pupils dilated. His body tensed. A sharp hunger surged through his chest – crude, physical, uncontrollable. Saliva began to pour from his mouth, thick and warm – dripping onto Gobby’s face, his neck, soaking into his collar.

And then – silence.

Gobby stopped screaming. His body froze. Something had activated. A reflex. A line of defense. His skin tightened. Muscles locked. Air compressed inside him, dense and solid. Moisture gathered rapidly on the surface – a full-body tension response.

And deep inside – we return to his mind.

Everything is still black. The fragments from before still drift. But now – something else moves.

A network of branches. They wind through the dark like veins of light – slow, steady, quiet.
They wrap around Gobby’s body, his thoughts, his broken inner world.
And then – a voice.
Soft. Gentle.
– Don’t be afraid. I’m here with you.
It doesn’t shout.
It doesn’t demand.
It simply exists – like a shelter inside the collapse.

But above ground – Drogo loses all control.

All thoughts of ritual are gone. All plans, all intentions – forgotten. He is no longer thinking. Only acting. He tears at Gobby’s clothes – ripping them open with frenzied hands. He places his palm flat against Gobby’s chest – feels the dense tension beneath the skin. He growls. The muscles resist – but he pushes harder.
His fingers begin to pierce.
Into the flesh.
Deeper.
Just a little more – and his hand will close around the heart.
Gobby writhes beneath him, his body twisted in agony.

CRACK. A blow. Glass shatters. Fragments rain across the pavement.

Drogo’s eyes widen – and then roll back. He collapses – all his weight crashing down on Gobby.

Behind him stands German. Shaking. Soaked in dirt. His hand clutches the jagged neck of a broken bottle. His breath stutters.

BUT HE DID IT!
He struck.
He saved him.

German heaves Drogo’s weight aside – wrestles the man’s fingers from Gobby’s chest, one by one. His arms burn from effort – but he doesn’t stop.

Then – gasping – he hauls Gobby onto his back. Gobby’s arms hang over his shoulders. His legs drag behind.
German carries him – step by step – out of the alley.
Pain lances through his foot – something’s wrong, something’s broken – but he doesn’t stop.
Then – people. He sees them. Pedestrians. Movement. Cars.

They’re almost safe.

The moment hits – and adrenaline vanishes. His leg seizes. Pain floods through him. Gobby is unbearably heavy. Still unconscious. Still not moving.
And then – a groan from behind.
Drogo.
German’s heart lurches.
His instincts scream: Do something. Now. Loud. Final.
Or we go back into the dark.
German turns.
He stumbles forward – through pain – through blinding light.
He pulls Gobby with him into the street – into the traffic.

Horns. Screams. Tires screeching.
And then – they collapse.
Both of them.
Right there on the road.
Unconscious.
Together.

Car horns blared. Tires screeched across the asphalt. People rushed from sidewalks and parked cars, voices overlapping in confusion and fear as they ran to help the boys collapsed in the middle of the street.

Back in the alley – cloaked in shadow – a large figure leaned silently against a wall.
Drogo.
His eyes glowed yellow in the dark. Not with hunger anymore. But rage.
His chest heaved.
His jaw trembled.

They interrupted the ritual. Stole the moment. Ruined everything.

– That filthy little insect… I’ll devour you in front of your precious friend – and make you watch. He hissed the words between his teeth, then turned, and with a shift of his weight – his silhouette vanished deeper into the alley.

But while rage coils in the dark, somewhere else – light begins to return.

Somewhere else – in white light – Gobby stirred.

He heard it first. A sound. Familiar. A soft, trembling sob. He opened his eyes.

His mother was lying across his chest, her arms folded tightly over him, her face buried in the fabric of his gown. She was crying. Not loudly – but with the kind of grief that has no voice left. As he shifted slightly, she felt it. She looked up. Her eyes wet, red. She wiped her face with her palms and threw her arms around him.

– Thank God, baby, you’re awake!

Gobby held her for a moment, his arms slow and unsure.
– Where am I? What happened?

Still clutching him, she answered through tears:
– You and your friend… You were attacked. A maniac. They said it was a miracle you survived.

A sharp pain throbbed in his head. And then – images.

Flash after flash. Pieces. Moments. Pain. Screaming. Darkness.

He pulled away from her, slowly, and opened his hospital gown.
His chest.
The scene flares up – Gobby charging down the field with a football, bulldozing through opponents, crashing into the end zone, his teammates lifting him in triumph.
Burnt into the skin.
The flesh around them torn – but the wounds had already sealed.
Not fresh. Not bleeding.
But very real.

His mother gasped.
– The doctor said everything’s okay… No idea what made those marks or why he left them. They’re just skin. Just scars.

– He stabbed me, Gobby whispered. He was trying to rip out my heart.

– Sweetheart… when they brought you in, the doctor only found markings. Nothing else. No punctures. No damage. Maybe you imagined it…

– What about German?
Her face changed.

– He wasn’t as lucky. He has a broken leg… cracked ribs… Cuts, bruises… But he’s alive. He’s going to be okay.

The pain returned. That low hum. Pressure behind the eyes. Another wave.

Gobby looked at his mother – his voice steady now.
– Tell me what happened. At the psychiatric hospital. When I was a kid.

– What are you talking about?

He looked harder. Voice flat.

– Don’t pretend. I need to know.

His mother froze.
For a moment, she said nothing.

Then she reached out and took his hand – carefully – as if it might break.
– If I tell you… You have to understand… This won’t be easy.