• Fear

    As he stood in that field, eyes aghast and body trembling, fear took over Michael Clayton’s body. Adrenaline coursed through each cell, preparing his body for a possible fight. He scrambled a few steps left, and then right all the while scanning his surroundings for a cause of the explosion. Nothing, it seemed. The car, now a burning chunk of metal, broken glass and sizzling rubber roared- it’s orange and red burning body, causing the horses to gallop hastily over the hill, deserting Michael in the exposed field.

    Whoosh. Whoosh. The only sound Michael could focus on as he desperately searched with his eyes for the culprit, the constant flow of thick blood from his petrified heart-past his ears- to his pulsating temple. If he focussed on these constant sounds, maybe they could calm him. Michael has never been a calm man. A typical night spent with him would show that, would show that moment when his mind changes to invincibility mode. His muscles tense to spring, at the slightest disagreement- a loss at a poker game, or a problem at home. It is his short fuse, which lead Claire and Caleb to become separated from him, and he knew it. Oh how he wished he could just walk away from those situations- or better, run. Run like the horses were. Swiftly and tenaciously, their hooves jutting into the soggy ground as the muscle and sinew in their legs told them to. Maybe if he didn’t have such a horrible temper, and wicked fury, his wife would still love him and his son would still admire him.

    Only a couple of seconds had passed, but to Michael, this was enough. He had made up his mind, he had to do something. Something drastic, something he has never done before, and something pretty damn quickly.
    Who knew what psychopath was stalking him from afar, biding his time to possibly strike again?
    Was the attack on the car meant to have Michael inside?
    Or was it a warning?
    A warning made for someone like Michael, a businessman who didn’t always play fair when it came to his job?
    Who knew? Michael didn’t. Although he knew, for once in his life, wholeheartedly, he had to get out of there.

    His legs jolted and dragged, feeling like weights-hindering him- as opposed to the hello they were supposed to offer. He scrambled backward up the stead grassy slope, all the while his eyes gaping toward the burning car and the surrounding area. Despite the gentle contour of the hill, he fell a lot. When he hit the top of the hill, a man. Emerged from the smoke, plainly dressed, greased back hair- but most prominently a shiny, cold, black gun- and a look in his eyes which says die.