The Escape (Peter, Aly)
May. 21st, 2010 04:52 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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darker_londonPeter wasn't sure now if the person who was holding him was Svetlana or not. What he was sure of, was that he had to escape somehow, no matter who it was. And thankfully he knew the place he was being held like the back of his own hand. He knew there was another way out. Up.
Peter waited until whomever it was that was holding him left for supplies or attending a cukoo meeting or whatever it was crazies did these days, and then he stood and searched the large chamber for the key to his freedom. He knew it had to be there.
He found it in a strange, wooden cabinet on the far side of the room. The rope Svetlana had once used to try to hang him. It had been so many years...
Peter was covered in dried blood, so he was glad to find a change of clothes on his search as well. They smelled musty and they weren't clean, but they weren't bloody either. They didn't fit perfectly, but they would do. He was hungry and he was thirsty, but he could find nothing to sate those needs. They would have to come later.
The rope was strong and Peter was able to toss it up and around a metal rod that jutted out from the stone wall. After testing the hold, Peter started his treacherous climb upwards. Every so often he could reach a place he could stop and toss the rope higher up and then he would continue on. His stomach hurt and his throat burned and his hands ached from the stone and the rope. His face throbbed from where Svetlana had hit him. He climbed anyway. He never looked down. And when he had reached the ground floor and the way out, he didn't take time to rest. He didn't have the time. He ran from the castle into the woods and from there he made his way into the small village at the foot of the hills and from there he called his wife.
Aly came to fetch him, food and water in abundance in the car with him.
"Peter, what did she do to you?" Aly asked as Peter stuffed sandwiches in his mouth. He had only explained that the person had looked like Svetlana.
Peter swallowed and he gazed at the window as they raced towards London.
"She broke my heart," he whispered to his wife.
She did not respond.
Peter waited until whomever it was that was holding him left for supplies or attending a cukoo meeting or whatever it was crazies did these days, and then he stood and searched the large chamber for the key to his freedom. He knew it had to be there.
He found it in a strange, wooden cabinet on the far side of the room. The rope Svetlana had once used to try to hang him. It had been so many years...
Peter was covered in dried blood, so he was glad to find a change of clothes on his search as well. They smelled musty and they weren't clean, but they weren't bloody either. They didn't fit perfectly, but they would do. He was hungry and he was thirsty, but he could find nothing to sate those needs. They would have to come later.
The rope was strong and Peter was able to toss it up and around a metal rod that jutted out from the stone wall. After testing the hold, Peter started his treacherous climb upwards. Every so often he could reach a place he could stop and toss the rope higher up and then he would continue on. His stomach hurt and his throat burned and his hands ached from the stone and the rope. His face throbbed from where Svetlana had hit him. He climbed anyway. He never looked down. And when he had reached the ground floor and the way out, he didn't take time to rest. He didn't have the time. He ran from the castle into the woods and from there he made his way into the small village at the foot of the hills and from there he called his wife.
Aly came to fetch him, food and water in abundance in the car with him.
"Peter, what did she do to you?" Aly asked as Peter stuffed sandwiches in his mouth. He had only explained that the person had looked like Svetlana.
Peter swallowed and he gazed at the window as they raced towards London.
"She broke my heart," he whispered to his wife.
She did not respond.
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