La Mouette Lunaire proudly presents

Nothing left to lose


Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose, but can you believe that they actually thought this title was too long?


"I guess it's time to say goodbye. Officially Lieutenant Billy Coen is dead."

Officially? Had there ever been any other version? But of course he should have known that from the start. His death warrant, signed and sealed a long time ago. Getting away? The mere notion seemed like an illusion now, a possibility he should never have taken for real in the first place.

And yet it had seemed all too tempting to embrace that little car accident in the woods as a wink of faith. His salvation for a crime he never even committed. His escape from justice which wasn't only blind but also deaf and stubborn. Incorrigible. Stolid. But never quiet. Scapegoats, their names being all abroad, possibly even further. And back then he never thought that he could ever become one of them.

Thought, not knew. What he thought he knew was obscured by the darkness of the woods. And there he would fight them, the true enemy. Umbrella. He had lost his face, just like they had been able to save theirs. But if you'd scratch the slippery surface in the right place, the company would show its true form. Putrid terror. Morality and ethics shoved away into the cellar to rot with the corpses and treason flowing amongst their midst like the blood of those they deceived.

Yet it was no longer of his concern. For one night he had fought in the abyss of darkness where he had sought forgiveness for the guilt others had freed themselves of by placing it on his shoulder. But Umbrella had no place in his past and it would not be allowed a place in his future.

'Future? What future?'

The mockings of his mind surfaced, got caught in his throat and made him retch. They? Of course. They and the smell of this place. He was a fool to have let himself confine here. And the worst part was the humiliation. The certain knowledge that he'd had a second chance. Run. Fight. Redeem. And what was it that he did with that second chance?

Did he perhaps place it on hope? Hope, like the one that was already buried here, beneath the empty eyes of those standing next to him in this place of dirt and sweat? And indeed some had not yet lost their faith that maybe later would be better, even those who had crawlingly emerged from a past so amazingly bleak and similar to his.

But what about himself? Could the others still see hope in his eyes when their gazes met? Or were they blind to it, left without answers, because there was nothing left to find, no matter how hard they kept looking?

He himself didn't know anymore. When she'd gone and he was alone again he ran. Ran away and kept on running. But he couldn't have kept it up forever, even if things had been different. There had to be a point for his course to stop, a point for his past and his future to collide and burst apart, only to leave the shackles of the now, which were too heavy to let him lift his feet and keep on running.

And that's why he was here, in this place, this place which he hated because it was too crowded, too cramped. This place he hated because of the clothes they made him wear. Because of the smell, because of the colours, because of the work and all the dirt. He hated this place, hated those who managed it and those who came and were free to leave again. And the others? They wanted to turn their backs on everything and run away again, just like him. But they couldn't. Not yet.

He took a step forward and locked on to the gaze of the burly man in front of him. The concept of the enemy. And yet in a way the reason why he was still alive. Greasy hair. Not as bad as his of course, not as bad as any of those forced to wear the disgustingly uniform caps. But the man was not one of them, he was entitled to something better and yet he willingly chose…

Anyway. Think. It wasn't his concern anymore. And yet he couldn't help but stare at the one standing vis-à-vis, couldn't persuade his train of thoughts to move along a happier route. Prejudge. Judge. Evaluate. It all depended on him now. And the sooner he'd get it done, the sooner he would be free of his shackles and able to run.

Pain. Degrading, humiliating pain. Even that would go away sooner or later. But not now. Now he had to take a deep breath, had to ignore the terrible stench and force his parched lips to form a weak smile.

„Welcome to Burger King, may I take your order?"


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...everything I say now can and will be used against me, so bear with a 'yeah, I was bored'. Comments? Feedback? Fries with that?