It had all been a lie, a cover-up.
The council had intended to seal his fate once and for all whether the planet ate them or they had to finish him off by means of alternative intervention. This had been nothing short of a plan to murder the young Force Sensitive out of pure and simple narrow-minded constraints imposed by those who feared any use of the force that they themselves did not approve. Corrupt and arrogant. The only term that described such individuals so aptly was “Control Freak”
Each and every one of them.
A snag at the ankle was all it took to interrupt Calen’s flight from danger, his mind playing catch up amidst the intoxicating overflow of hormones before he had realized he was headed face first into the first. And with a powerful thud, he fell palms first, his joints shrieking with pain as they took the brunt of his weight and gave with the impact, causing his chest to slam into the ground almost un-dampened, followed by a turned right cheek. Pain burned through his body as he screamed in reaction to it before hauling himself onto his back, a hand pressured to his cheek out of natural instinct to suppress the wound on his face.
Eyes alight he saw his pursuer. Never had he made a single stride of headway in forging a distance between them. The hunter had kept pace all along, never faltering in step as Calen burned through the jungles. A hiss sang across the air as an emerald beam ignited from a glinting hilt.
And just like that, it was over. Calen’s mind fought through the haze sleep as the sun played over his face through the shutters of the room he was currently occupying, the unpleasant smell amidst the sheets of the bed he had taken residence in filling his nasal passages as a fresh reminder as to where he was and what had happened to his life.
Reaching to his right to the dust-covered nightstand next to him, Calen’s fingers closed around the bulk of his blindfold before he slipped it over his head and ran those same fingers through his stark white hair in an effort to keep it out of his face. While the follicles themselves had no effect on his vision whatsoever, they did exist as somewhat of an annoyance when they fell across his face, their thin existences serving only to create a sensation that would only cause one to scratch or claw at their own face in reaction to.
Falling back down into the musty pillow, Calen lost himself in thought. How long had he been here now? He had lost track of that awhile ago, nor had he bothered to keep any form of count. It was only now that he kinda wished he had. What if he did get off of this cruddy planet? How would he be able to tell anyone how old he was or how long he had survived all on his own for? People would end up thinking he was just making it up or otherwise hallucinating. That’s how you got committed to mental health centers.
Lifting up the hunting knife that had been lain right next to where his headband had previously sat, Calen toyed with the sharp instrument amidst his fingers. What if he never got off of this planet? What if he were doomed to die here alone, afraid, detached from any form of society whatsoever?
Dragging the tip of the blade across his bare belly, Calen positioned the instrument between his ribs, over his beating heart and lay his hands atop its hilt as if prepared to drive it through his own flesh, his mind lingering upon the idea, but failing to execute the plot.
Why shouldn’t he? He had nothing anymore. It had all been taken from him all because he had dared to do what everyone else had scorned him for. All because he had explored a higher calling, a better way of doing things.
“Why can’t they just understand?” he murmured to himself as he tossed the bayonet back onto the nightstand and curled up amidst the molded blankets once again. Life had been anything but fair to Calen.