Elie Wiesel's Party: A Narrative Fiction

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The man in the old world party mask continues to chase after us, and I 'm not so sure we can keep up this run for much longer.

We haven 't eaten in three days, and I know for a fact my body is upset about that, but

Mykel, I 'm not so sure. I 've never really asked myself, but do angels need to eat? Do they thirst or have to relieve themselves as we do? Based on the brokenness plastered on his face, i 'd say one of the above is true.

Right now, as we 're being chased by a man who can shoot fire from his hands, I think I 'll save those questions for later.

I still clutch Mykel hand, constantly being dragged down by his shifting feet, but even in a world where survival is all that matters, I drag a suicidal angel with me. The wind rushes past us, almost pulling us backwards and towards the madman who from the few glances I 've had, I must
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The man inches the flame into the now gushing wound and slowly lets the fire make contact, searing the mangled flesh and burning it back together. The smell of burning meat fills the space churns my stomach and I dribble puke.

His screams are indescribable. I’ve heard my fair share of screaming, everyone has, but the noises escaping Mykel’s lips aren’t human or angel. I don’t think it is long before the legendary angel cry for help will hit everyone’s eardrums. The wound completely seals with charred skin and flesh, effectively stopping the river of blood from releasing.

“E-e-e-eric…” Mykel moans, looking to me.

“Oh dear.” The man feigns a gasp.

I swallow and Mykel chokes on his breath.

“I think I missed a spot. Here, let me try again.” Mykel bursts into more tears, until he is reduced to a blubbering mess on the floor.

Corruption or not, I stand up and launch myself towards them, absolutely no idea how i’ll somehow get us out of this. The man throws the machete at me, missing me by half an inch, and landing it into a skull resting behind me.

“How the-?” He looks flabbergasted, as if he has

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