The wind was like thunder in her ears, booming loud, and she could still hear the real thunder above that. But she didn't care. The thunder was her doing, after all, as was the ripping wind and the greyish-blue clouds on the horizon, coming in at an abnormal speed. She sat under the Queenstown bridge, the salty, muddy water caking her feet and tattered shoes with yet another layer of brown, gooey sludge, which would soon dry. The high-tide water slapped her ankles with both its force coming from the waves and its drenching cold.
Suddenly her skin got an amazing tingling sensation, signalling the storm was ready to be commanded. She picked up an old branch and, mud squelching underfoot, stepped out onto the drenched sand.
The only reason for this storm was fire. She would light the branch on fire using her lightning powers, then, quickly, splash her way back under the bridge.
She held the short stick up, pointing it stock still, and waited, calling on her Gift.
The clouds began to give birth to a monstrous downpour. She knew it was time. She gave a horrible scream, waking Queenstown from their deep sleeps, and the sky lit up with false daylight. A single fork of lightning struck her branch, sending the shock through the stick, into her, and she laughed at the feeling of the electricity flowing through her, into her bloodstream like she was a crazed druggie who'd just taken another dose of drugs. She quickly ran back under cover at lightning speed - literally, because she was fuelled by lightning.
She lowered the smouldering log to a wood-filled fire pit. Fire ate the air as it leapt ten metres high.
She sat down, her ribs poking prominently through her skin, and huddled into a ball. Her glassy eyes, once green, were a stormy grey-blue, like the clouds on the horizon which had now started to dissipate, back into vapour, until she called on them again.
She began to mutter madly. Her words were so tangled, as she hadn't spoken in a while, even her twisted, mangled mind couldn't make any sense of the gibberish coming out of her mouth.
Finally, she heard words.
"I will find you."
"I am keeping you here."
"Show me a sign of you still being here. Can I still believe? Or have you left me forever?"
++Do not lose faith. We are still here,++ a voice whispered hoarsely, faintly. It was packing power, but not as much as she was used to hearing.
"Is this just my twisted mind talking? Show me a sign."
The rafters of the bridge suddenly came to life. Tiny, flapping things invaded her nostrils, her mouth.
Moths. Hundreds of tiny moths.
She stretched out a long, slender yet dainty finger. A single moth flew to it and she stared at its face, trying to see if-
"There!"
She looked up, and all of the moths' eyes suddenly stood out to her. Staring at the moth on her finger once more, she squinted to make sure. She was right.
The eyes said it all.
They were pure white, with no iris or pupil.
YOU ARE READING
Eyes of White
Fantasy"It's not just a bad guy. It is literally the worst thing you could imagine. It possesses anything, working its way up the ranks of minds - as in insect, dog, bird, human, everything - unti it takes over the world. And if it possesses you, you will...
