Forsaken

Chapter One: The Dream

Time slowed as he stood before me, seemingly to suddenly appear out of nowhere as if the space between us had dissipated.

I felt the warmth of his hands, the gentle slide of calloused palms, the enclosure of a sure target; before I felt the call for air.

It was deep, welling up inside me, threatening to overflow.

But that was nothing compared to the pure desire radiating off him, wave after wave plummeting into me, willing my very essence to be drowned in its despair, to kill me long before the physical side of suffocation could.

His hands were firm, his eyes set and his face a perfect image trapped in time. No drop of sweat rolled down, no-wrinkle kissed his brow, no second thought sheen through the window of his soul. Because he was calm, because my death, my destruction, my ride down to hell itself! Did not bring a lick of insanity in its wake.

For I was mere, only a small frame in his movie, a picture in his gallery, a human in his world.

I moved then, twisting and turning, slapping my hands onto his arms reaching my legs as far as they could in the effort to slam my body into him. But the effort was too great, his strength too much and I couldn't. Couldn't loosen his arms, couldn't take out his stance, couldn't escape his grasp.

And he knew it.

My arms felt heavy as they fell, their weight too much for me to hold as the fight they fought only stood in memory with the faint red lines that ran across his arms.

A final release of breath left my lips as I knew I'd been beat, tears now running smoothly done the curve of my cheeks as I closed my eyes, willing my last mental image to not be of his horrid face as he strangled me.

The whispers of death came slowly, steadily wrapping themselves around my dangling feet, crawling their way up my rigged spine and circling my held head. They were peaceful, calming even. Telling me to let go, to come with them, to see the light. I let their sweet nothings draw me in, to hold my hand, to guide my step, to lead me through the sheen of gray.

"Jedidiah, stop!"

The whispers halted, their black capes shifting in the fictional wind, their bodies still wrapped closely to mine. Tilting their oval heads, they listened, standing, waiting, almost hoping for a sign.

Absently,...almost as if a million miles away I felt the pressure increase, an intuition that those calloused hands now clammy with rushed sweat, had tightened themselves around my neck.

The whispers now grabbed me, no longer gently guiding me down the road but rather dragging me. Their bodies forcibly tearing my soul away. Pinching and grabbing at my flesh anything to quicken the pace. My death was no longer a steady pull but rather a rushed race against time, the goal to drag me down, past any remission.

"I said stop."

This voice unlike the last was no request, but a command, a throat clenched demand, to kneel, to obey.

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