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Horror Fiction
Bad Angel
Salvage Sans Salvation
Chapter 1 Page 7
Bad Angel
Salvage Sans Salvation
Chapter 1 Page 7
From his vantage on the gurney, oblivious to the furious, life-saving efforts of the flight crew, Christen forced his swollen eyes open to watch through the helicopter's side door, as it tipped over and exposed the world between his two jutting feet. There, far below, he saw his smashed vehicle, where it lay half wrapped around a concrete barricade that separated the sidewalk from the landscaping. Tracing a set of serpentine tracks across the concrete with his eyes, Christen encountered a tight knot of emergency workers huddled around a prostrate form that tangled the center of a wide pool of blood and gore. As he watched, one of the living tossed a white sheet over the dead.
Christen surrendered his life in that moment, and he no longer cared whether he survived or perished. In fact, he relaxed his every throbbing appendage and abandoned all desire for breath. He longed for death. Death, he knew, would fade the girl's image from his mind's eye, because he feared nothing else could.
He wondered if she had been smart, or talented. He wondered about her future. He wondered about children she could never have, and he pondered the husband she would never marry. Fate rendered all her dreams and hopes to dust, he imagined, and he had come along to blow them away from the cupped palms of his malign hands, scattering them to the morbid doom of oblivion with a casual breath and a haughty toss of his chin.
Before his eyes, her startled face loomed, until it blotted out the reddened, anxious expressions of his belabored caregivers and the reality of his torturous surroundings. A great sense of peace and relief washed over him then, and he felt a final, ragged breath drawn from his body by the accordion collapse of his useless, broken ribs. Though his eyes glazed and his true sight faded to black around a pinpoint of light, her face loomed ever larger, ever clearer, and ever brighter before him. Her countenance was the cratered surface of a killing moon, her eyes and mouth three vast, black holes to speak of unspeakable calamity to come.
"I'm sorry," he hushed with the last gasp of wind to cross his lips. "I'm sorry."
Christen surrendered his life in that moment, and he no longer cared whether he survived or perished. In fact, he relaxed his every throbbing appendage and abandoned all desire for breath. He longed for death. Death, he knew, would fade the girl's image from his mind's eye, because he feared nothing else could.
He wondered if she had been smart, or talented. He wondered about her future. He wondered about children she could never have, and he pondered the husband she would never marry. Fate rendered all her dreams and hopes to dust, he imagined, and he had come along to blow them away from the cupped palms of his malign hands, scattering them to the morbid doom of oblivion with a casual breath and a haughty toss of his chin.
Before his eyes, her startled face loomed, until it blotted out the reddened, anxious expressions of his belabored caregivers and the reality of his torturous surroundings. A great sense of peace and relief washed over him then, and he felt a final, ragged breath drawn from his body by the accordion collapse of his useless, broken ribs. Though his eyes glazed and his true sight faded to black around a pinpoint of light, her face loomed ever larger, ever clearer, and ever brighter before him. Her countenance was the cratered surface of a killing moon, her eyes and mouth three vast, black holes to speak of unspeakable calamity to come.
"I'm sorry," he hushed with the last gasp of wind to cross his lips. "I'm sorry."
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