Vintage Memories

Chapter Thirty-Three (Part One) "As Good As Any"

(A/N: In typical 'me' fashion, I've returned after a long stay away with a bevy of changes to my formatting, storytelling, and technique. Them's the breaks, I guess. I've learned so much about writing since I started this fic almost two years ago. The growth is apparent when comparing my earlier and current chapters. Perhaps when this story is complete, I'll refashion the whole thing to meet my new standards. Until then, thank you to those who are holding on.)

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Blackness overruled all.

Angel floated in this soundless empty space, his body insensible. When he cried out, demanding to know where he was, the words left his lips, but ravenous silence devoured them before they reached his ears. Opening his mouth turned out to be a big mistake. The nothingness bored down his throat like an ocean of nil, making breathing a battle.

Someone! he thought, sending his pleas out into the oblivion. Someone help!

He thrashed and kicked. He wasn't swimming, and yet he was drowning. It was a harrowing sense of helplessness; a torturous process that taunted the futile fight response onward even as the body failed.

A pinprick of light pushed its way through the veil. It seemed to regard him with equal interest, easing closer. As if breaking the ocean's surface, he could breathe again, and he had a strong inkling that this little star saved him. It danced in pixie-like widdershins around him, appearing harmless and friendly. Angel felt compelled to touch it.

But when he reached out, its innocent quality waned. It stopped prancing and hovered at eye level, staring him down. Then it ascended, looming over him as its radiance expanded. A strange warmth wafted in, rising in intensity but never crossing the line into painful.

Painful or not, it frightened him. Something about the warmth and light instilled a disturbing sense of estrangement. He wasn't supposed to be here; he must flee; return to the dark and cold where he belonged—where it was familiar.

Legs were slow and uncoordinated, as if wading thigh-deep in a pond of molasses. The prominent warmth on his back remained, chasing him. Then, like an atom bomb, it combusted, enveloping all in its glare until he was just as blind as he was before.

Now, the heat hurt. It was as if scalding towels scrubbed his skin raw—scrubbing until it bled. The pain rendered him immobile. There was nowhere to run; nothing but searing white. So he screamed.

Angel sat up, screams tearing out of his throat.

He could barely see in this unfamiliar, ill-lit space, but he could hear himself again. Towels beneath him bunched under his frenetic, opponentless struggling. A soft coolness caressed his naked body, but it only tripled his blind panic. Naked—Why the Hell am I bare-ass naked?! The only scrap of coverage was a towel draped over his lap. Everything fucking hurt. Everywhere had a hot rod of pain plunging down to bone. His hands were encumbered by neatly wrapped bandages. The gashes on his back and legs were pulled taut and sutured. Thrashing pulled at the stitches, but he didn't give a damn. Pain took a back seat to panic. He screamed and screamed, hamstrung by terror.

Then a hand clamped over his mouth. Another braced the back of his head, forcing him to still. He quieted, hyperventilating against a palm that smelled of sandalwood, salty sweat, and sweet champagne soap.

A gentle shushing filled the abrupt silence. "You're alright, Angel."

A calming ebb and flow of amber candlelight guided Angel's breathing back to a natural rhythm. Pulling red eyes held his focus in the sundown gloom, their emittance barely reaching the limits of the gray face encapsulating them.