Abroad

It was way too dark to see anything anymore, he thought, annoyed at himself for having chosen the late flight. He stood beneath the warm glow of the streetlight, watching the mosquitos gathering there. He should move, he realised, or he’d end up being their dinner. Sighing, he tried to focus his eyes on the things around him, but he could not see farther than the light from the lamp.

His suitcase jumped across the stones as he slowly moved forwards, edging closer towards the darkness. When he had finally left the light behind, he could see no longer. He stopped moving.

Suddenly, the cold edge of a knife pressed against the nape of his neck. He gulped. “Hello? Please, I don’t know where I am.”

A thick hand pressed against his mouth, so that he could no longer speak. “I think. You is foreign, no?” A thick accented voice said, sounding curious. “I always loved foreign people best.” Then the edge of the knife moved along his neck and he screamed, barely noticing that no sound escaped his lips.

© 2016

Sunday Photo Fiction, August 21st 2016

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