Voices

He was a madman, heartless and obstinate in the pursuit of evil, of destruction, of…

(he was the devil's advocate, the right-hand man)

On her birthday, he came to visit, bringing with him the auguring end of time and the world. He tossed her aside like a sack of grain. The scar on his forehead burned bright (her twin stigmata pulsated in response).

The time had come, judgment day was here.

Raven tossed and turned in her sleep, trying to convince herself that it had all been a nightmare, that Slade was dead in a bottomless magma-bound prison. That today really wasn't her birthday, and she will wake up tomorrow with nothing the matter.

But he started talking.

First in whispers, muffled by a thin material like the stuff of moths' wings. Stronger, louder, more demanding until she could see his face poised directly over hers. Slade smiled, grabbed her in a vice-grip embrace.

"I'm only the messenger," the voice ran, smooth as silk, "This is your destiny. I am only here to tell the prophesy."

She tried to break free, to scream. No sound came out, strength depleted. Raven felt her body relaxing, bones turning into a gooey mess.

And then she went completely slack in his arms. The voices echoed closer, aiming to enter her mouth.