“Fuck” he uttered to himself, completely exasperated. When exactly the chase began, he could no longer recall at this point. Specifics aside, he knew for certain it had been going on for some time. Even if he couldn’t quite recall that himself, the smell of sweat and the extra weight it added to the shirt he lugged around with him made it clear that he had certainly been exerting himself physically for some time.
His breathing was deep. Desperate. And it wasn’t as if he was an unfit person, naturally at least. Back in high school, he had been cross country champion, the finest middle distance runner that the school had ever had - his name still etched eternally in a gold-effect text on the mahogany board that was wall mounted in the school’s otherwise unimpressive entrance.
Robin’s disorientation was only amplified by the crippling headache that was beginning to take control of his brain's every function. There was little he could do about the headache, he thought to himself; he wasn’t above drinking his own urine for survival purposes, but he simply didn’t feel the need to go, given his current predicament. The only matter he could seriously think about addressing right now to assist his comedown from the unrelenting grip of disorientation was to check his watch, so at least he could know how long he had been on the run.
Sandwiched between two walls for cover, Robin barely had enough room to stretch out his arm. Curled up, he couldn’t quite make out what the time read. A harsh light reflected from the face of the watch with a knowing smirk that was encouraging Robin to make a decision he knew would be risky. Though with a glint like that, how could he say no? With a breath so deep he felt it ripple from his knees through his brittle shins, Robin composed himself.
With the gusto of Freddy Mercury at Live Aid, Robin raised his hand to the sky and tried to rotate it so he could make out the watch’s face. Just as he caught a glimpse of what he thought was 02:17, he let off a piercing scream, his eyes drawn beyond the face of the watch to a new addition to his hand: a crossbow bolt.
Robin twisted and turned his arm in an attempt to pull it back into the safety of his metal surrounds, but with the additional width of the bolt, he couldn’t quite manage it. A game of Tetris without the possibility of a restart when he inevitably got it wrong.
He couldn’t quite work the angle, but he figured that as long as he grasped at the top of the wall, he didn’t leave his hand exposed enough to be the proud owner of a second crossbow bolt through his hand.
“I wonder if this is why people don’t wear their watch on their dominant hand,” he pondered this thought for a moment before remembering that now wasn’t the time for answering life’s biggest questions, but for ensuring that he didn’t lose any more use of his hand. The sound that followed will echo for eternity in the mind of anyone who heard it, the sound of Robin’s flesh being torn as he threw all of his might into his efforts to grip the surface above his head.
As his grip tightened, he noticed that the tearing sound coming from his hand had created a gaping hole in his hand, blood flowing faster through it now than before. He imagined it was similar to how a hole in the ozone existed - the structural integrity not entirely reduced by the hole, but it certainly allowed things to pass through much easier and was causing a lot of pain. One key difference between the two, however, was that in creating a bigger hole in the ozone, problems were only increased, whereas with a bigger hole in his hand Robin found opportunity. The opportunity to rid himself of the bolt.
It was only at this point, taking deep breaths to ready himself for the DIY surgical procedure he was about to perform that the smell of sweat reminded him of the rest of his predicament. Even if he was to remove the bolt, he had no idea what to do next. No idea how to escape. Distracted, by this thought, his mind started to wander. As did his hand. Before he knew it, with a deafening thud to boot, a second bolt hammered through the back of his hand.
“What was that for?”, Robin found the words escaping his mouth before he’d even really had a chance to process what on earth he was saying. It didn’t matter all that much, he knew he wasn’t going to get an answer.
He could hardly bring himself to look up at his hand, knowing that the only thing worse than the pain was having to stare his misfortune in the eye. He also realised, however, that the first step to resolving any issue was of course identifying said issue. Hiding behind the squinting lids of his eyes as best as he could, he gazed up at his disfigured paw. For a moment there was a brief feeling of hope. The force of the second bolt had managed to loosen the initial bolt. It felt like his luck was on the turn for those few seconds, a smile even spread itself across his face.
That moment was short-lived. As he gazed into his wounded hand, the smile was shot off of his face as a third bolt split the difference between the other two. Robin had no shrieks left to cry, no liquid inside of him to form a tear. He could barely summon up the energy to swear.
Defeated, his bolt-less hand stuck itself into his pocket like a moody teenager. It was in this acceptance of defeat that he found his way out: it was time for him to call the police.
Owen White was an illustrator and artist from the North West based in Leeds. Check out his work.