Custom Search
Alphabetical Indexes: A - B - C - D - E - F - G - H - I - J - K - L - M - N - O - P - Q - R - S - T - U - V - W - X - Y - Z - 0 - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9
Horror Fiction Science Fiction Fantasy Fiction Dramatic Fiction Historic Fiction Noir Fiction Short Story Collections Poetry Collections
Horror Fiction
Bad Angel
Salvage Sans Salvation
Chapter 1 Page 8
Bad Angel
Salvage Sans Salvation
Chapter 1 Page 8
Somebody calmly announced, "We're losing him."
Christen's heart raced painfully upon hearing this news, before it slowed to a terrible tumble. He had never felt such sensations. The intermittent, fumbling thump of his pulse fluttered uncertainly for a time within his chest and throat and fingers, and then it simply…. stopped.
During the seconds that followed, Christen's body fell completely limp, and all his many bleeding wounds slowed to a trickle, then a drip. His rescuers worked skillfully to revive him, but Christen found himself far beyond responding, and these last moments of his life passed without sight, without sound, without feeling of any kind. He felt trapped and isolated in a world of soft cotton, inured to the busy scenes of his own demise and wonderfully unafraid of the unknown that must inevitably follow his final breath. During this calm before the terrifying storms eternity must call forth, Christen found himself alone with his thoughts.
With all the desperate rapidity of a mind that knows these considerations may be its last, Christen experienced a gush of wild and exhilarating emotion that varied from depressed morbidity to manic enthusiasm all at once, even as his memory dumped itself out onto the performance stage of his imagination in a vast load of useless waste. He watched himself grow from toddler, to child, to adolescent, to teen, and then to adult, and he somehow managed to measure his worth along the way, sorting his recollections of accomplishment and failure as an accountant might collect figures for a final tally.
When all was said and done, and his life played across the black inner surfaces of his eyelids, Christen found himself lacking, bankrupt, and destitute in all regards. He lived a meaningless, purposeless existence. Once he passed, humanity would not notice his absence. Few would care to know he had ever been. Little record of his passing would remain. He had done nothing of significance with his time, and he had left nothing behind him, save for perhaps a tiny stone graven with his name.
Christen's heart raced painfully upon hearing this news, before it slowed to a terrible tumble. He had never felt such sensations. The intermittent, fumbling thump of his pulse fluttered uncertainly for a time within his chest and throat and fingers, and then it simply…. stopped.
During the seconds that followed, Christen's body fell completely limp, and all his many bleeding wounds slowed to a trickle, then a drip. His rescuers worked skillfully to revive him, but Christen found himself far beyond responding, and these last moments of his life passed without sight, without sound, without feeling of any kind. He felt trapped and isolated in a world of soft cotton, inured to the busy scenes of his own demise and wonderfully unafraid of the unknown that must inevitably follow his final breath. During this calm before the terrifying storms eternity must call forth, Christen found himself alone with his thoughts.
With all the desperate rapidity of a mind that knows these considerations may be its last, Christen experienced a gush of wild and exhilarating emotion that varied from depressed morbidity to manic enthusiasm all at once, even as his memory dumped itself out onto the performance stage of his imagination in a vast load of useless waste. He watched himself grow from toddler, to child, to adolescent, to teen, and then to adult, and he somehow managed to measure his worth along the way, sorting his recollections of accomplishment and failure as an accountant might collect figures for a final tally.
When all was said and done, and his life played across the black inner surfaces of his eyelids, Christen found himself lacking, bankrupt, and destitute in all regards. He lived a meaningless, purposeless existence. Once he passed, humanity would not notice his absence. Few would care to know he had ever been. Little record of his passing would remain. He had done nothing of significance with his time, and he had left nothing behind him, save for perhaps a tiny stone graven with his name.
FreeSoftwareApps.com - Goooggle.com - Publish-ME.com - SafeFreeDownloads.com - SafeFreeSoftware.com - SafeFreeSoftwareDownload.com