WHAT IF DEATH IS JUST ANOTHER
PAIR OF HANDCUFFS
PAIR OF HANDCUFFS
He does not mean to venture into the woods.
The night had blurred into one long dream of fairy lights and festivities. There had been a fortune teller, Sterling knows, and at one point he had bobbed for apples, and... He can’t remember; his head is reeling from too much pumpkin wine and spiked cider. He had wanted to get away from the noise and the crowds, just for a little while, to breathe the cool night air and rest his throbbing skull—
And now he’s here, weaving through the shadowy trees, beginning to wonder if he’s strayed too far from the pleasures of the marketplace. He’s not alone, exactly, but the voices that he hears are far-off, snatched swiftly away by what’s proving to be a rather bitter wind. Somehow he’s surprised by how dark it is. It’s easy to forget, living in the city, the depth of true night.
He turns around, shivering with cold, ready to retrace his steps to the court. Only then does he feel the first true prickle of unease along his spine. He had expected to find lights at his back, but among the trees there is only blackness, dizzying with the thousand tiny movements of leaf and branch. His vision swims as he scans the forest, looking for a flicker of light, listening hard for a strain of festival music—
What he hears instead sinks freezing talons into his chest. “Help me,” the trees whisper, and Sterling flinches and staggers to a halt. His brain feels like the smashed insides of a pumpkin, and the forest is beginning to spin, and the voice, the voice...
Was it his voice? he thinks wildly. Did he call for help? He needs help, he knows it—now in this moment and always, always, with his constant irreconcilable mistakes—
He doesn’t remember calling out. He’s not sure, with his skull full of fog and lightning, but he doesn’t think that it was him.
And so he stands in the silent wood, breathing hard, and listening.
The night had blurred into one long dream of fairy lights and festivities. There had been a fortune teller, Sterling knows, and at one point he had bobbed for apples, and... He can’t remember; his head is reeling from too much pumpkin wine and spiked cider. He had wanted to get away from the noise and the crowds, just for a little while, to breathe the cool night air and rest his throbbing skull—
And now he’s here, weaving through the shadowy trees, beginning to wonder if he’s strayed too far from the pleasures of the marketplace. He’s not alone, exactly, but the voices that he hears are far-off, snatched swiftly away by what’s proving to be a rather bitter wind. Somehow he’s surprised by how dark it is. It’s easy to forget, living in the city, the depth of true night.
He turns around, shivering with cold, ready to retrace his steps to the court. Only then does he feel the first true prickle of unease along his spine. He had expected to find lights at his back, but among the trees there is only blackness, dizzying with the thousand tiny movements of leaf and branch. His vision swims as he scans the forest, looking for a flicker of light, listening hard for a strain of festival music—
What he hears instead sinks freezing talons into his chest. “Help me,” the trees whisper, and Sterling flinches and staggers to a halt. His brain feels like the smashed insides of a pumpkin, and the forest is beginning to spin, and the voice, the voice...
Was it his voice? he thinks wildly. Did he call for help? He needs help, he knows it—now in this moment and always, always, with his constant irreconcilable mistakes—
He doesn’t remember calling out. He’s not sure, with his skull full of fog and lightning, but he doesn’t think that it was him.
And so he stands in the silent wood, breathing hard, and listening.
AND MAYBE GOD IS JUST A COP
THAT WE CAN FAST TALK
THAT WE CAN FAST TALK
