WHAT IF DEATH IS JUST ANOTHER
PAIR OF HANDCUFFS
PAIR OF HANDCUFFS
The woods are dark, and dark, and dark—
And then suddenly they are bright, almost blinding by contrast, as the clearing begins to cloud over with a thick, silvery-white mist. Sterling snorts and stumbles backward, startled, uneasy. The mist rises swiftly around his pasterns, then past his knees, reaching toward his shoulders. He wheels, staggering between the trees, afraid to breathe it in.
But the fog in his brain and the fog in the wood are beginning to run together, now, and if there is an escape he cannot find it. Half-drunk, half-awake with panic, he circles in, tighter, until there is nothing but himself and the coiling mist. He breathes heavily, reluctantly, his flanks heaving, but it doesn’t smell like anything but humid air.
And then the wailing starts, and all worries of mist flee from his mind. “Help me,” he remembers, and a chill spider-walks across his heart. Is it the same voice? Is it crying out as prey, or predator? He shudders and tries to peer through the white veils of fog, hoping to see anything at all—
But the mist rises, tall and opaque, and the wailing, too, grows louder, spiraling out into a thousand voices, haunting and cold. Sterling cannot see; he cannot think; he cannot hear anything beyond the ghostly rush of sound. He is too bewildered even to be truly afraid.
He stills, his muscles trembling. He closes his eyes. He swallows around the thump of his pulse in his throat, and listens to the keening.
And then suddenly they are bright, almost blinding by contrast, as the clearing begins to cloud over with a thick, silvery-white mist. Sterling snorts and stumbles backward, startled, uneasy. The mist rises swiftly around his pasterns, then past his knees, reaching toward his shoulders. He wheels, staggering between the trees, afraid to breathe it in.
But the fog in his brain and the fog in the wood are beginning to run together, now, and if there is an escape he cannot find it. Half-drunk, half-awake with panic, he circles in, tighter, until there is nothing but himself and the coiling mist. He breathes heavily, reluctantly, his flanks heaving, but it doesn’t smell like anything but humid air.
And then the wailing starts, and all worries of mist flee from his mind. “Help me,” he remembers, and a chill spider-walks across his heart. Is it the same voice? Is it crying out as prey, or predator? He shudders and tries to peer through the white veils of fog, hoping to see anything at all—
But the mist rises, tall and opaque, and the wailing, too, grows louder, spiraling out into a thousand voices, haunting and cold. Sterling cannot see; he cannot think; he cannot hear anything beyond the ghostly rush of sound. He is too bewildered even to be truly afraid.
He stills, his muscles trembling. He closes his eyes. He swallows around the thump of his pulse in his throat, and listens to the keening.
AND MAYBE GOD IS JUST A COP
THAT WE CAN FAST TALK
THAT WE CAN FAST TALK
Sterling is staying put! <3
