ONLY ANGEL | B. Barnes

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Darkness weaved its way through the cabin, sliding through thick, wet walls of the building and brandishing the room with nothing but bleakness. As the wind cried out and the trees winced, the cabin shook a little harder - causing Wick and his assistant, Frazzle, to grimace at the pace of the weather. A bad night for a bad idea. Wick felt as if he were being punished by mother nature, a slap to the wrist for being so dark.

It was laughable at how the idea had sprung onto Wick as soon as he laid on his bed, the midnight hour chimed and he was suddenly on his feet - ready to move, ready to attack.

Wick move over to the sliding doors and watched over the mountains, ignoring the sound of birds and their hoarse voices, he continued to watch the mountains from a distance - the rough edges reminded him of jagged bones, that he unconsciously brought a hand to run over his forearm. His determination never splattered, though the doubt was slowly eating him alive, twisting and churning his brain and latching on a little harsher.

The idea had struck him as a whisper at first, echoing around his brain, where it slowly started to rattle. It moved around his brain like a slide show, going from one corner and quickly to another. The constant made him restless, causing him to stop the urge to claw at his head. Then, it came forward, pounding against her skull almost making him fall out of his head. With the last string of abuse, he staggered toward the sliding doors, his gaze immediately catching the mountains taunting him as they stood still, composed - calm.

Now, he realized how painful harboring the idea was, and he began to mutter, the words came out as a slither. Hissing almost as he spoke to himself. His teeth clashed as he spoke quick and harshly, and it he had known of his blabbering he would have realized the small cut forming on his lip.

The pain had only momentarily calmed, allowing the time to think, the guardian paced toward the desk - carelessly rummaging through the desk where he found a leather bound book and a pen. Ripping through the pages, the state of a clean slate caused the male to screw his eyes shut. He came to the conclusion, the more he ignored the thought, the more the pain doubled in size - taunting him for not listening, jeering at him for being so dismissive. He thought he could ignore the dull ache for a few more days, but it came burst through his skull that night in a form of a plan.

He began to scribble and dot around the page. His writing looking more as chicken scratch, with heavy black lines and plenty inky blotches from crossing out words he didn't particularly like.

Wick felt the thought fall onto him with a demolishing amount of weight.

"They shall die." the words had tumbled from his lips without a lick of hesitation, set in stone. His body flinched, falling still at the terrible words falling from his lips. So dark, devilish even, Wick didn't recognize his own voice - the sound dripping around him like an exhausted wave, waiting impatiently for his verdict.

He paused, stared down at his page with a crazed look in his eyes, almost obsessive. With an inaudible gasp Wick realized his drawing portrayed the Antichrist with her face clawed off, muscled stretched and torn flapping around her face with blotches of blood around her neck.

"You'll kill her." that voice tumbled from him again, still unreasonable but obviously tumbled from his lips. It now circled him, the words - almost like rings of smoke clinging onto the end of a cigarette. Wick could almost see the words taunting him, smirking at him for the sudden fear blossoming in his chest.

He suddenly knew what it was, the voice. Not of his own, but something more powerful, more prominent. It stretch their words, dipped their vowels , hummed their adjectives. Wick felt himself crumble inside, this couldn't be happening.

"I-I can't actually kill the Antichrist." he whispered, the sound of a petrified boy who sought to highly of himself finally start cracking. He knew his words where pathetic, and he was angry at himself for being so weak at that very moment.

"A pity, you're very adamant on catching her," the words paused, and Wick felt the saliva lather around his throat, "Aren't you, Wick?"

There was a prick to the corners of Wick eyes causing him to sniff away the horror. The words started to close down onto him, thrashing and knocking at his skull trying to penetrate his brain. He screwed his eyes shut, the horror creeping up his throat, like starved bodies scratching up a well.

He snapped his eyes open, irises immediately catching the drawing of the Antichrist and bile nearly drowned him whole. He brought his hands to his ear, trying to block out he chant of death spitting in his ears. It was continuous and he was slowly loosing vision with how hard he kept screwing his eyes shut.

"Go away!"

It did not leave, not even for a minute. the voice terrorized him the entire night, feeding into his fear as he withered under the rain smacking the windows of the cabin.

----111----

"You're a liar."

Wick turned around to face Tilda Johnson, who stared at him with a thunder look. Fist clench as she appeared larger than the door she stood between. There was a fierce look in her eyes and Wick knew there would have been an account ache forming behind his eyelids soon.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Johnson." his voice was hoarse and guttural, causing the woman to scrunch her face. She walked over to his desk, and he promptly removed the drawing of the Antichrist off the desk, swiftly dropping the drawing into an open draw.

"You're going to use the girl to perish hell, to perish purgatory!" she bellowed, stalking even closer to the desk with a predatory look in her brown eyes

He screwed his eyes shut, her tone louder than he anticipated. "Hell is of anguish, regardless."

"So, you choose to burn it to the ground?" she scoffed as she glared at the male, "You angels will never understand the need of hell, you see torture of one of your little human sex toys and automatically think there could be a redemption for them."

Wick glared at her, unappreciative of her crude words. "We have our reasons."

"What? Killing the girl?" she laughed bitterly, her heart pulling for the girl.

His eyes screwed shut once again. He didn't like that word. "I'm not going to kill her!" he shouts, tired of the word plaguing his mind. "I'm not going to kill the devil's spawn, I wanted her to reestablish Heaven."

"She can't do that, Wick. You know that."

He shrugged, "She either restores, or she destroys."

Tilda stiffened. "She won't."

"I don't want her dead, Tilda." He paused and looked at her. "I wanted to use her for bettering Heaven."

"Then why go through all that trouble of nearly killing Bucky?" Tilda responds.

Wick paused, he didn't know how to weave his way out this one. He could lie, say that the girl was an abomination - but that would be a lie, she far too good. "She's too attached to the man, she needs to be kept far from the demon."