Fallen

10 - dire straits

A groan escaped me as I pulled on my arm. My shoulders were extended in an unnatural manner. Eyes shot open to confirm that both of my wrists were bound outward to hold me to the bed. Craning my neck, I noted a thin orange rope that ran out of sight, presumably under the mattress. The motion made me wince. I needed to right the damage he had done.

"Welcome back Ash."

Atticus was writing at his desk. After closing his journal he pushed his chair back and swiveled it on one leg to face me. Leaning back, he gestured towards me. "Now look what you made me do," he tsked.

Beyond confused, neck sore, and headache forming, I sighed and dropped back on the pillow. "Please, do explain how this is my fault," I asked.

The chair creaked as he rose from it to sit on the edge of the bed. Able to meet his eyes without overextending, I saw past the mischievous front to see uncertainty there.

"I didn't want to have to do this, but you don't understand what's at stake here."

"Please," I begged. "Just tell me. What can you possibly have to hide from me? I've seen your soul. I've felt your soul. Just talk to me." Eyes pleading I involuntarily tried to reach for him and winced again.

Leaning forward, Atticus poked at my tender neck. I sucked a breath in through my teeth. "I need to reset it," I said, hopeful.

Bright blue eyes met mine. "Too bad." He crawled over me to flop down on what was available of his usual sleeping place, head resting on my arm like a pillow. "Tell me about the human you killed."

My mind stalled. "What?"

We laid together, staring up at the knotty pine boards, catching waning sunlight through the skylight. He didn't ask again or clarify. He waited.

Taking a deep breath, I thought about Bill.

Bill had been a handsome twenty-four-year-old construction worker. He was a talented artist and ate three sandwiches as a small part of his lunch every day. Boy, could that man pack away food. Bill had also been developing paranoid schizophrenia.

"He was mentally unstable," I started. "He got involved with a mother of three young children I had been shadowing. They really hit it off and he treated the children like his own. He moved in with them and it seemed like they were going to be good for each other." I paused, swallowing a lump in my throat.

"As his sickness developed unchecked, he became possessive and controlling and delusional." My breaths were becoming shaky as I relived my involvement.

Atticus rolled onto his side to face me. "And then what happened?" he asked encouragingly.

I turned my head to face him, ignoring the strain, "He was going to kill those children," I whispered. Tears streamed from my eyes as I held the demon's gaze. "He really believed it was for their own good. That they would all have this beautiful ascension. I couldn't stop him. He was so sure he was doing the right thing."

I was crying through my words. Rambling out my reasoning; my excuse. Taking a deep breath, I continued, "So I reached into his chest cavity while he slept and squeezed his heart." My tears were hot as my voice grew stronger. "I felt his life end so quietly and his soul passed right through me and it was like swimming through sludge."

We were silent and still. My face was wet from my tears but I had stopped crying. I leaned back, my neck becoming more and more bothersome.

This is temporary.

"And then you end up here." Atticus' words echoed through my head. I looked back to see that same waiting stare.

"What's your point?" I asked, trying to read his stoic features.