The Fallen

The Fallen
E. Bacon

Prologue

Sweat drips past the folds of my upper lids onto the protective sclera of my orbit. The sodium content is momentarily bothersome as I squint to accommodate it. No longer inclined to acknowledge the solemn ticks of an ominously obscured solar timekeeper as I should, I resign myself to whatever fate awaits me. I haven't the will to appose it. I have come to terms with this in the past few hours. I've all but welcomed it as heat has drained away any semblance of remaining strength hours ago. If I'd any to begin with.
Better that it end now than continue on this path. I have to believe I’ve prepared for this, until now. God willing, I will be forgiven this trespass and accepted into the Kingdom of Glory. For the first time in nearly a decade I am left to hope because shame bars me from prayer. That upon my death the sins of the past night, as well as those involuntarily committed within the time I've resided in Castlegrove, will be outweighed by my years of devotion.
That by chance this punishment is no less than what I deserve to be reduced to in the time being. Hope and chance, my only possibilities of deliverance for having forgotten the Lord in these hours of need. Something I hadn't known was possible.
Inducing darkness should catalyze my bodies inevitable reaction to the trauma it has endured as the flame-like orange orbs behind my lids rage in spite of my effort, I do not relent to curiosity. I haven't opened my eyes for… I couldn't say how long. It’d have been counterproductive to attempt to measure even had I the resolve to silence the incessant tick… Tick… Ticking above. I wish it would rain. Storm, and drown me where I lay.
The half-wine, half-screeching sound of the gate rocks my resolve because I know I have good reason to be alarmed. My eyelids spring open involuntarily. Apparently, for the time being I still possess the metabolic capacity necessary for this action.
Someone has entered the space I dare not call mine. Nothing short of the atrocities of last night could be less grave than this notion. Friend or Foe? They seem to be one in the same here. "Galen?" No immediate answer. Is my punishment over?
Who had I been last night that I could end up in such a situation? Who is he that he could command such a show without force? His manipulation had felt more natural than the word itself could accurately portray. Galen had been correct in all he’d admonished. I had been free. A part of me does belong to him. A part I myself neither control nor command. That acquisition of power happened so long ago. Forged in an attic a decade in the past. Solidified under a full moon. Survived through years of neglect. Yet, I denied him last night. As his words play back in my mind like a recording I call out.
"Galen!" I repeat through abrasive, dehydrated vocal cords. The sound is atrocious. He may have denied me an immediate response under normal circumstances for dramatic effect, but under the present his objective would be to reassure me of my safety. I know the presence here with me is not him before the voice confirms it.
"No such luck sweetheart." The voice is female and familiar. In my state, unable to recognize the sound of my own words, I recognize hers. I can only imagine what this visual must portray. I need remain alarmed for my own protection, but with the realization Galen is nowhere to be found my resolve once again plummets to basal depths. The others will not as readily accept me as Galen would have me believe. As he would like to be the case. Had I required their acceptance this would be a disturbance to me but they are animals. Tainted and undeserving.
Ruby polished nails extend to me an open water bottle, half empty. I am too weak to accept it though my body sorely requires the nourishment. My vision is doubling again. Green orbs of light congregate at the borders of my peripherals and dance through my field of vision. Good. The floating blobs conceal the warm bottle as it is stealthily placed to my lips. I sputter out the water forced upon me, allowing my head to roll to one side limply. Shutting my eyes to beat back the orbs, the heat threatens to overwhelm me. I am gently pulled up into a sitting position. More gently than I would have anticipated. My head is cradled back against her bosom as she guides the water into my mouth.
Despite the conscious lack of will for survival I gulp the liquid down my parched throat at once, absorbing it like tissue paper. I can feel the ruby coated fingertips wiping the sweat from my cheek across my lips. Stroking my hair gently. Closing my eyes had allowed me some momentary control over consciousness but that too had been an illusion as I become aware of my nudity. My lips are moving desperately, yet only scarcely audible mumbles escape. Indecipherable to even myself.
I am laying once more. Jagged is the hot stone abrasive at my back. Though the surface is relatively smooth each minuscule deviation of the plane is agony after so many hours upon it. Many oak trees loom high in the sapphire vail above, offering wide spectrum protection from the brutal force of a gaseous nemesis, however some thin, golden streams persevere, burning like lasers selectively through the orifices of the leaves. With only a heavy coating of perspiration with which to cloak my depravity I am as defenseless against this assault as I’d been hours ago. There is no turning back the hands of my fallacious timekeeper. Everything has changed irreversibly in this past night. Even if I managed to survive somehow I have already given up everything. Though blind sighted, I've allowed this. Damned now, I welcome an end to the pain of that knowledge.
Family. Love. Jordan. They are one in the same and equally fated. I want to dwell over this as my last, conscious thought but haven't the cognitive strength. Fading from existence they will be left to associate me with the positive aspects for which they are familiar, erasing the tracks of my sins from this life by allowing myself a swift release from it altogether.
I can feel the ruby polished fingers sliding over sweaty flesh as her words fade into the humidity of the air. Too warm. Sticky perspiration. I can see only mirky red obscurity now as the cones associated with my retina struggle to dispense the proper quantities of red, green and blue pigments. Visual acuity itself is disrupted by photoreceptor damage lessening the effectiveness of the transduction of light energy into nerve impulses in my optic cortex. As my thoughts grow more random my body grows numb with renewed resolve. A suppressive quality that may be the last grace bestowed upon me, so I wallow in it.
Mirky, red hands. They move delicately over mirky flesh with a tacky quality. A stickiness. Absorbing the energy I release. Spurred by her words in a tongue more native than she knows, until the mirk is no longer a gaseous haze but a tangible quality. Sticky yet. Camouflaged amongst the pale, cleaved fingertips it scales the delicate hand and spreads across the perspiration coating my own flesh. Blood. It is everywhere.
My heart courses the remainder of it through my veins with the waning determination of a sand-locked snail now. The calm of numbness is heavy upon me. As the remainder of my will drips away a final revelation lingers briefly.
We are not alone.
And then it passes with consciousness.