Et Tu, Brute?

You looked out the window and, not for the first time, thought about how wrong the weather forecast had been.

Your heart was beating so loud it could've been compared to a hammer on cheesecloth. Your legs were numb, your hands shakier than the gravel being tossed around the small mob's feet. Everything was a whirl, and you couldn't help but humor yourself into thinking about how the weatherman's predictions had been wrong once again.

Dark, ferocious clouds littered the grey sky in a wall, their presence almost calm against the loud shrieks coming from the angry people outside your doorstep. They knew you were in here long before the police ever could've known, and it bewildered you to think about how it could've been found out.

Of course you hadn't broken into the town hall. You were short of money, not common sense. The place was practically guarded heavier than the queen of England's palace; it would've been absolutely idiotic to even think about committing such a crime. You hadn't done it, but you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. They needed someone to blame, and you were perfect to frame. Your poverty was a game to them, and they could play it off easier than any hopscotch game the town's children could.

The attic felt hotter than ever, the thick air causing sweat to sit in beads on your forehead and upper lip. You drew a quick wrist over them, wiping away the perspiration in hopes of it settling your nerves even a little. It didn't.

The people who were hiding you were your aunt and cousin, and they didn't even know they were hiding you. You'd been there for almost an entire day, and you wondered if maybe they had found your presence out and thought the reward of money for turning you in was worth more than family. Blood is just as thick as a wad of cash, right?

That's how it had always been in this lousy town. Everyone at each other's necks, ravishing one another in the town center for the better slab of ribs, or the nicer wheel of cheese. You'd seen the almost inhumane fights first hand. The sickening sound of a crunch as a hungry man swung his fist against another man's cheekbone, the cobblestone ground causing the fall to be harder than the initial hit. It was man against man, and you just so happened to be a little sneakier than everyone else.

'Go on, get!' had been a common phrase spat at you as you had been caught in those very few, unlucky times, scrabbling against the dirt as you cursed under your breath. You were treated like an animal when you were caught in their sheds and gardens, but you couldn't blame them-- you had acted like one, too. Not dying of starvation was a huge priority of yours, and you preferred not to shrivel underneath a bridge and eat cattails one more night. You lacked trust, and no one had proven to you that it could be gained, either. Your only trust lay with your family, and they had barely done enough for you other than tossed a pitiful loaf of burnt bread your way once or twice.

If pick-pocketing and stealing meant survival, then so be it. The survival of the fittest, as you had been taught through metaphors of the elders that you had always thought to be silly, was true. But to steal the documents from the town hall? That was quite literally a death sentence, and it wasn't worth the hassle anyhow. The documents held important information to your village, and any bigger town that could get hold of said documents would consider a large sum of money to whoever was brave enough to hand it over. However, this meant the reputation of betrayal would shroud you forever, and the money would barely be enough to get you out of your country and away from danger.

It wasn't worth the trouble in the end. Alas, you had gotten the short straw once again.

A loud thud awoke you from your thoughts, and you jumped as you saw people picking rocks up and throwing them at the side of the two-story house. Had they known you were in the attic? The thought was enough to make you cower closer behind the windowsill, drawing your knees to your chest as a way to protect yourself. Your arms wrapped around your legs, your breathing irregular and shaky. No one had seen you, as rocks weren't being thrown at your window, and you exhaled a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding.

That was until a faint scream and the rumble of feet passed your senses, and you realized they had gotten into the house.

The attic wasn't hard to find. In fact, it was almost comically easy to find. A spruce staircase lead up to your hiding spot, and the only other way out was the window. Accordingly, when you heard the sound of footsteps draw nearer to the attic, you stood up like a newborn deer walking for the first time, and you jumped out the window.

It was almost in slow-motion. You opened your eyes mid-air, horror hitting you harder than a truck as you realized how much you truly did hate heights, and that wasn't until you hit the ground.

Gasping for air as the wind knocked out of you, you breathed in, choking slightly as cold air filled your lungs. Soft, sleek raindrops pattered on your back as you knelt on the ground, heaving slightly at the fear coursing through you, and you stood up finally.

You cast one good look over your shoulder as you prepared to run for the hills, and you saw your cousin making eye contact with you as they shoved a thick file of documents into the saddlebag on their horse before they left in the opposite direction.

You knew right then that the forecast being wrong was the least amount of betrayal you could ever feel.