It is cold here. It is a paralyzing, numbing freeze that never seems to cease. I walk in darkness, an omnipresent screaming loud silence weighing down on me like a tangible pressure. The only sound that echoes through these woods are my footsteps, crunching and crushing the dead, fallen leaves like small bones underneath my feet.
And I am scared. Of what, I can't say. But my skin feels prickly and I have goose bumps. It feels as though I am being watched by an unknown... thing. An image flashes through my mind like lightning: a large, dark vulture with long, dangerously sharp talons that could spear straight through a man's heart. The vulture has black, watchful eyes that are cold, and calculating; as though it is deciding whether I make proper prey or not.
This terror is like a tangible cage, locking down around my heart and I feel my body go cold. My entire frame starts to wrack with violent tremors and my harsh breath makes clouds of silver mist in the frozen night air.
I have been pushing my way through trees and weeds, but now I merge through tall grass and into a small, round clearing full of brittle grass and dying flowers.
Suddenly there is a rushing mass of black cloth that streaks behind me and I spin around, stumbling, but there is nothing there. Then a low cackle pierces the night and sounds throughout the whole wood, chilling me to my bones and a shiver runs down my spine.
Then the figure smashes down in the clearing just ahead of me, almost invisible in the black night. It is clothed in ripped black clothes, and has a dark blue scarf wrapped forcefully around its neck.
Like a whip, its head suddenly looks up and stares at me with chillingly ice blue eyes, the only source of light in this godforsaken wood. It rises slowly, and though it wears a long cloak, it does not make a sound; not a single rustle of clothing, snapping of a twig, or crunching of flowers. It is an eerie silence that is louder than any bloodcurdling shriek, and that is what makes it frightening. When it straightens, it is a tall, slender, elegant figure with a shock of dark black curls. I get a glimpse of its face when the moon shines weakly through the silver clouds for a couple seconds; it is pale, slender, with cheekbones sharp enough to slice skin, and dark eyebrows pull down over his ice eyes, the expression almost hateful. It almost looks human.
"Your name," the figure suddenly bellows, his voice a deep timbre that rumbles in his chest and makes the frozen air around him crack and shatter. Then large wings, black and caked with dried blood, and still bleeding, unfold out of its back, extending into the sky majestically. They are silent and full of an almighty power that could cause colossal damage to whomever or whatever stands in their way. They are extravagant and hauntingly graceful. They are fast and could catch me easily if I tried to run.
"Watson," I breathe, my voice barely above a whisper. The air in my lungs is constricted and tight, and I feel as though I will start to hyperventilate any second. "John Watson."
"Dr. John Watson," it corrects me, almost smirking. "What are you here for?"
This thing scares me, and my terror makes my heart race like a small animal's heart, and makes my entire frame wrack with tremors because it goes deep down into my brain; I am unable to think of anything else. My lips open to speak, but not a single sound comes out. I clear my throat. "I don't know."
It chuckles deeply, slowly growing with strength and sound. "Run, Dr. Watson, run," it hisses, and crouches to the ground in a hunched, poised position as though a feline about to pounce on its prey. Its wings crash down and it bursts into the sky, dead leaves and feathers trailing behind him like a tornado, and it disappears into the black sky.
Bile rises in my throat, but I swallow it down, and run. I flee, excrutiatingly eager to get awayawayaway from this place. Tree roots and thick twigs stick out of the ground and catch on my pant legs, as if grabbing for me to pull me down to the cold ground. Horrific sounds collide into a sick symphony of terror and dread, syncing harmoniously together; my harsh breath, loud and hoarse; my stumbling footsteps, jagged and irregular, like the beats of my earsplitting heart flooding my ears; the cackles of the angel of darkness echoing through the dead trees; and the thud of the angel's awfully beautiful wings as they circle me endlessly.
I must get away from this place and I cannot think straight and my mind is suffocating and I cannot stop running and adrenaline courses through my blood and I can smell my own vomit rising in my throat and I want to die--
The man of darkness stomps onto me and knocks all the remaining air out of my lungs, but somehow, I find enough air to scream.
"What do you want?!" I shriek and writh in agony, because the man is standing on my arm, crushing my bones until they grind together, and the sound is the only thing I am capable of hearing.
And then I am released mercifully, and I gasp, clutching my bleeding arm. The angel looks down at me curiously, as though intrigued by my pain. His eyes almost look soft as they stare at me. His wings, extended gracefully into the sky, flutter gently as they block the moon's silver light. "What are you?" he murmurs thoughfully as he bends down to examine me closer, like I am an extraodinarily rare specimen he has never encountered before, an animal he wishes to cut open and dissect.
The bile in my throat is too much, and I have to turn my head to the side because suddenly I'm choking on my own vomit and I cannot breathe. It scratches up my throat and leaves my mouth tasting of acrid and I the pungent stench clogs up my nose. "What are you?" I spit back, angered by the vomit and pain shooting up my arm.
But very quickly, almost undetectable, there's a flash of something in his glacier blue eyes, and his expression of curiosity goes to one of shock and vulnerability.
Then his wings swing down and smack the ground with an almighty strength, and the angel of darkness soars into the star strewn sky, and flies towards the falling silver moon as though fleeing from the rising golden sun. I watch him until he is no longer visible through the yearning branches of the trees, until the sun's warm rays land on me, warming my skin. But I still feel cold. I feel a frozen wasteland inside of me, and I've not a single idea as to what that man was.
Exhausted, I lay my head back down on the cold, damp leaves and spiral down into a deep chasm of slumber, hoping never to venture out of the chasm again.
