High and Drowning

Chapter 1

flashback: [flash-bak] 

a noun

a sudden and disturbing vivid memory of an event in the past, typically as an result of trauma. 

_________ 

The chamber in the revolver spun and Raphael leveled it at his head. It's God's will, he said, calmly, delicately. 

Almost sadly.

His finger pulled back on the trigger, and nothing happened. He was spared. Spared from death, but for what? 

To repent, for an unknown sin. 

So much pain, so much agony. Confess. The voice screamed at him. And again, and again. 

And then. 

The sympathizing face of Tobias, poison in one hand, a needle in the other. 

It helps, he says, drawing the liquid out. Drawing his belt tightly to bring out the dehydrated veins,  he ignores the panic, the pleas. And plunges the needle in. 

Instant release. Instant euphoria. It doesn't last nearly enough. 

Too soon, he's back in his own personal hell, facing his own personal demon.

Five lives. And he has to choose one life over the other. Somewhere deep inside of him, he chafes, screams, against this moral injustice. 

He watches this avenging demon murder one of those lives right in front of him. 

Tobias returns, and he realizes with a pang that he doesn't refuse the poison quite as hard as he did before. 

He wants to be free from this. 

He wakes up to fury. And pain. And death, ironically. 

Some people have wondered what it must be like to toe the line in-between life and death. It has always been a mystery. And always will be. 

He saw light. And warmth. He felt so...alive, and happy. 

Then, his chest ached, and he was surrounded by cold, and, fear, and death. But he was alive. 

There are no accidents. The voice echoed and banged around in his head. 

There it was again, that silver revolver. Three times it clicked, hammer falling on an empty chamber before he gave in. 

And then. Tobias one last time. He didn't even try to fight him. The needle slid in and out, coolly, practiced.

And he dreamed about his mother. 

Suddenly before he knew it, he was in a graveyard, fresh dirt digging into his knees. Shovel in his hands. A gun at his head. 

He could only scrape the top layer of the ground.  Dig. The voice, was loud, commanding. 

He couldn't, physically couldn't. 

The shovel was ripped from his hands, a jacket thrown haphazardly on the ground, a gun slid close to his shaking hands. 

He didn't even have to think twice. 

Only one bullet in that gun, boy. The voice was taunting, arrogant. 

He didn't care. He pulled the trigger anyway. 

_________

Spencer jerked upright, gasping for breath and clawing at his chest. For a horrible few seconds, he was back in that shed in Georgia. He swept a hand through the sweaty mess of hair and then ran one down the front of the shirt, straightening it.