Simon's heart is beating hard against his ribs, threatening to burst through his chest. He's panting, trying to get more air into his lungs, his throat burning from the cold air. His chest hurts, his legs and muscles are screaming at him to stop, but his mind is telling him to run.
He looks behind himself, and the woman is still there, chasing him relentlessly. He groans and tries picking up the pace. His feet slam into the pavement at top speed and then pick up again, and he doesn't think he's run this much or this fast since he was twelve. His jacket is flying behind him, and his shirt is sticking to his body due to the sweat.
He skids on the pavement and makes a sharp turn to the left, in a small alleyway between two run down buildings. There's a line of trashcans up ahead. He jumps, foot clanging against the metal cover, but it's not good enough. He loses his balance and topples over, along with the trashcans, making a loud crashing noise of metal on metal. Simon's sprawled on the floor, panting harshly, chest heaving. He sees the silhouette of the woman at the end of the alleyway, and her white teeth shine in the moonlight as she turns to him.
Simon scurries back, unable to stand up, his ankle hurting terribly, every move of his foot sending needles of pain along his leg. It's sprained.
The woman closes in on him when he can't retreat backwards any further, since the road is there and he doesn't want to be run over by a car.
Her grin stretches into a twisted grimace, and her eyes turn black, making her look inhuman, beastly, otherworldly. Even though her eyes are as black as ink, he can still see the madness in her eyes, the unadulterated insanity.
She doesn't speak, but instead stretches her arm out, curling her fingers around empty air. She starts twisting her hand slowly, and Simon feels his neck twist to the side slowly, uncontrollably. His mouth falls open in a silent shout, trying to pull his neck back, because he knows that if these keeps up it'll snap.
All of the sudden, a blinding white light fills his vision. He closes his eyes instinctively, and yet the light still burns hot at his eyelids, makes his skin burn. He doesn't scream though, his voice caught in his throat, his vocal chords tied in a knot.
His ears are ringing, the shrilling whine of alarm inside his head, seemingly slashing at his brain with sharp blades. He holds his hands over his ears, noticing the pressure on his neck is gone, and folds into himself, curling up into a ball. He'd cry, because he's never felt this kind of fear and confusion in his life, but he can't because the burning light dries his tears.
And just like it started, it's over. The light fades, recedes, and his mind is empty, the silence a peaceful relief to the earlier pain in his throbbing head.
He waits for a few seconds before opening his eyes slowly, blinking to get used to the darkness, white spots flashing everywhere, like when you look too close at the Sun. A car passes behind him, and he can hear it, so it means he's not deaf. He's not blind, either.
Someone is standing above him, but he doesn't know who it is, and he can't tell because he's only seeing their legs.
His head is spinning, and the white dots are completely blocking out his vision. His head feels like someone's drilling into it. He collapses onto the ground, exhausted. His vision goes black.
When he awakes, he's in bed. The blankets are over him, and his head doesn't ache anymore. He groans, and moves around in bed. Nothing hurts. Good. He holds his hands up to his face, and though his vision is somewhat blurry, it's because he's not wearing glasses. He puts them on.
Now that his vision is clear, he looks around his bedroom, hearing the bones in his neck creak.
And then he almost gets a heart attack.
Someone is sitting on the chair beside his bed.
Simon jumps and screams, scurrying away from the man sitting in his room.
"Who are you? What are you doing in my room?" Simon exclaims weakly, reaching around behind himself for anything he can use as a weapon. It turns out to be a ballpoint pen. Not the best he could hope for, but it could potentially blind someone, or at least seriously bruise.
The man turns to look at him, and if it weren't for the fear racing in Simon's veins, his breath would've been taken away because Simon thinks he's just found the most beautiful man on Earth.
His skin is tanned, olive coloured. His features are polished, refined, his cheekbones high and prominent, his jaw hard-set. His lips are from another world, rosy and full and soft. His hair is dark brown, slicked back, the colour of earth and a dark sunset. His eyes are what shock Simon the most - brown too, but piercing, sharp, attentive, resembling smoky quartz. He doesn't even look real. He's clad in a dark leather jacket and jeans, contrasting with the stark white room.
"I am the angel Raphael, one of the seven, who stand before the Lord." the man says with a booming, reverent, powerful voice. Simon recognizes the saying, because though he was raised jewish, he's read the Bible before.
"You're insane." Simon concludes, pointing the pen at him more insistently, trying to get off the bed by inching slowly to the edge.
"I insist, I am completely sane." Raphael continues, still not taking his eyes off Simon. The boy can feel his gaze through him, sending cold shivers down his spine.
The man moves, and when he shifts in his seat, his jacket moves aside, and a gleam of a blade shines in sunlight.
Simon feels fear knot up his throat and clench at his stomach, paralyzing him completely. This 'angel' doesn't make a show of it, or take it out. Simon's synapses are firing, his mind racing to find a way to escape this situation. He doesn't know how this man got in, but just by checking his body structure, he knows he's stronger, if his wide shoulders and strong arms are anything to go by. He slowly moves a hand to the drawer in the bedside table where he keeps his phone, and reaches for it blindly, trying to make as little noise as possible while he tries thinking of ways to distract Raphael.
"Prove it, then." Simon challenges. "Prove you're an angel."
"I do not think you wish me to." The man says, calmly. It irks Simon. He won't take his eyes off him, so he can't possibly dial 911, not when he's watching. He might take out that blade he saw earlier.
"I do. If you don't do it, then I can't believe you." Simon counters, feigning confidence.
Raphael sighs. "Fine. But I warn you, this might anger you."
Simon is baffled, but he nods anyway. He needs to leave this room and escape, before he gets chopped up into tiny pieces by this - lunatic.
The man closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He extends his arms, and Simon takes his chance. He dials 911, presses the phone to his ear, and waits for someone to pick up.
Nobody does. If they did, Simon couldn't hear it, because a simultaneous cracking and crashing sound echoed throughout the apartment. Glass shattering, falling to the floor in a thunderous second.
Simon pulls the phone away from his ear, and sees light smoke coming out of the back. He opens it and coughs as some more smoke puff up in his face. The battery is fried.
"What did you do?" Simon yells, looking around the room. On the floor, at the foot of his bed, broken glass from the lamp that once hung from the ceiling lays there in shards. He crawls onto all fours and looks down the hall, and realises the lights there are broken too.
"Get. Out. Of. My. House." Simon grits out. Nobody can hear him, even if he screamed - all his neighbours leave for work early, and he lives on the top floor.
The boy then flings the broken phone at him and runs for it, jumping over the broken glass. He locks himself in the bathroom but - 'Ah!'
The lights aren't on, so he doesn't see the broken glass on the floor. He yelps in pain and falls to the floor, clutching his bare feet in pain. Blood is trickling down his hand, warming it, pooling on the floor. It hurts like hell, and when he feels around his foot, he accidentally pushes the glass in further, making him scream in agony. His pain tolerance has always been very low, ever since he was a kid. He knocked his pinkie on a table once and had ice on it for three days.
Now it feels like someone's stabbed his foot all the way through, like someone's driven a thunderbolt into his body. He whimpers in pain, refusing to cry, just trying to stop the bleeding by applying pressure with his fingers. He painfully shifts to where the toilet paper roll is, and he takes a lot of it, holding it to the wound.
He closes his eyes and tries relaxing his body, tries to block out the pain like they do in books.
'He ignores the pain.' 'She runs through the pain of her injury.'
That's always been bullshit to Simon. He's always had a low tolerance for pain, and having a piece of glass shoved in your foot hurts like a bitch.
His head feels hot against the cool bathroom tiles, and he's on the verge of tears.
Suddenly, the lights switch on. The blood is still on the floor, but the glass is gone, and the lights are shining. Simon squints his eyes and looks up to see Raphael kneeling over him.
Painfully, groaning with every move, he squirms away, until his back hits the wall.
"Get away from me." he seethes, but Raphael's determined expression is unchanged and unwavering.
"You're hurt. I must protect you." Raphael says, and gives no further explanation. Simon is terrified, and his whole body shakes with fear.
"Stay away," Simon says weakly, putting up a shaky hand that lightly brushes Raphael's chest.
Raphael ignores him, and presses two fingers to his forehead.
A strange, fuzzy, warm feeling runs through Simon, like getting covered in a blanket in winter, easing his pain and calming his mind. His eyes close, and he lets the feeling run through him, revelling in the comfort and warmth.
When he opens his eyes, the searing pain is no longer there. He knows no more than seconds have passed, but it felt like hours, in the odd warmth that flowed from the tip of Raphael's fingertips -
Raphael.
"What - what are you?" he asks now, panic rising in his voice. He's scared again. The lights in the bathroom have been fixed, so he assumes the rest are too.
This person - man - thing - is evidently not human, and Simon feels something odd coiling in his stomach, a mix of fears and curiosity that he feels betray his primal instinct to get the fuck out of there.
Simon stands up, puts a hand on the sink, leaning against it. He's dizzy, confused. Does this have anything to do with the previous night?
"I told you," Raphael speaks in that annoyingly calming voice that Simon is starting to despise slightly. "I am the archangel Raphael."
Simon's eyes have blown wide, and he's gripping at his hair with one hand, tugging harshly, hoping the pain will wake him up from this horrible nightmare he's having.
"But you can't be!" Simon shouts, furious. He doesn't know why - maybe it's his emotions boiling over, his confusion blending with the muddled feeling in his brain from the odd healing mere seconds ago.
"Why not?" Raphael asks, standing up and facing him. The look in his eyes is something Simon can't quite place - something he's never seen before, like he's a robot, like he's not staring at anything yet focused completely on him at the same time. It doesn't scare Simon, just unsettles him.
"Because I'm an atheist!" Simon yells back. His brain hurts, everything he's believed up until now is wrong. He wants to think this is a horrible nightmare, but he can't, because the reasonable part of him knows it's not.
The angel, finally, shows some emotions and rolls his eyes. "That's not how it works."
His irritated tone of voice shocks Simon, and he blinks twice, taken aback. He curls his fingers against the sink and breathes, deeply, closing his eyes. When he opens them, Raphael is still there.
"Why are you here?" Simon croaks, throat raw and aching from the screaming.
"Because you are a prophet of the Lord." Raphael says in his monotone, calm voice.
If there was a maximum level of confusion, Simon is at it, because now he can't keep his grip of reality.
"What?"
Raphael frowns for a moment, before continuing. "You are a prophet of the Lord, chosen to interpret the word of God."
Simon feels strange, dizzy. His head feels like it's made of lead, the gooey substance filling the crevasses in his brain.
"I can't be." Simon counters, trying to find the last bits of logic he can. "Struggling poets are not Heaven's prophets."
"Just - listen to me, will you, you stubborn bastard!" Raphael blows up at him.
Simon is genuinely taken aback, and he leans on the sink, inching away from the angel before him, wanting to close his eyes and block out the intense stare he's receiving from this otherworldly being, but he can't, trapped in the irises like quicksand.
The angel doesn't seem to notice Simon's fear, he doesn't seem to notice the way Simon's legs quiver and shake, or how the boy's hands tremble, or how his eyes are pleading for him to stop, to shut up, to leave and forget this ever happened.
"Listen to me." Raphael says, leaning even closer still, arms on either side of Simon's body, his stare the most intent and intense Simon has ever had the chance to lay eyes upon, his eyes simultaneously the most terrible yet the most beautiful he has ever seen, eyes like flame and eyes like sand, eyes like steel and eyes like thunder, furious yet calm eyes, a gaze of calm storm. "You are Heaven's chosen, Simon Lewis. What you write will be recorded in History, your life shall be told for generations, the paths you walk, venerated, and the air you breathe, desired. You will lay down and interpret the Word of God, of Angels, of the Heavenly, and it shall be treasured, and passed on. You, Simon Lewis, were handpicked by the Lord himself.
Treat this opportunity wisely. Do as told, and rewards unimaginable await you in the golden skies.
Simon Lewis, you are one of many, but will be like none."
Raphael is leaning even closer, and his voice reverberates inside Simon, a constant echo that promises glory. It's indescribable to anyone that hasn't heard it, something one can't replicate in any earthly way.
Simon thinks. For the longest time, he thinks, the words Raphael has said caught between them. He finally has the courage to ask, to put his thoughts into words, and they come out raspy and rough, like they're sandpaper against his throat. "Why me?"
"History has always had its eye on you, Simon Lewis." Raphael replies, angelic and deep, something powerful behind it, a sense of undeniable truth hiding beneath every word.
And just like that, he's gone.
Simon hears something like the flap of wings, feels a gust of air hit his face gently, moving his hair, he sees a wisp of gold, and then nothing but the expanse of his bathroom and the corridor wall.
He shakes his head a few times, trying to find the sense in the senseless, logic where there is none, explain the unexplainable, and attain the unattainable by thinking about this in a rational manner.
I need something strong. Simon thinks, and heads for the kitchen. He opens the alcohol cabinet, pulls out the vodka from the back, and takes two big gulps.
What he doesn't see, however, as he leaves the bathroom, is the golden feather that gently falls to the tiled floor.
"Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop!" Simon yells at nobody, gripping the sides of his head like they're about to fall off as he rolls back and forth on the floor.
A loud screeching noise is rattling inside his head, the sound piercing through his ears, gnawing away at his brain. It feels as if someone had put a spear through one of his ears and it had come out the other, slicing a hole in his head. The loud screeching noise wouldn't stop, like a thousand times the cry of an unearthly beast.
Simon doesn't know how long it's been going on for - seconds, hours, minutes, days, years, centuries. He's lost the perception of time, the pain in his head the only thing he can focus on. Tears are welling in his eyes and he can't take it, his eyes screwed shut in pain and his teeth grit tight, already hurting his jaw.
"Please, just make it stop." Simon pleads in a low voice, almost a whimper, to no one, to anybody that'll hear. The dim afternoon light shining in through the windows too bright, the feeling of the wooden floor beneath his knees too cold, the clothes he's wearing are itchy, the glasses resting on his nose too heavy.
Simon knows nobody can hear him, but he still wishes the pain away.
Far away, as if he weren't in his body, lightly, he feels a hand on his back, rubbing it. He can barely feel it, but he knows the hand is warm. It's soothing, but it can't calm him down. He rolls onto his side, and feels his back hit something, someone. The warmth helps relax him as the pain subdues the tiniest bit, the screeching and wailing inside his head lowering a bit. The high pitched sounds are not in any scale measured by men, for if they could it would break glass, and tear through metal like a blazing beam of light.
"Please…" Simon sobs, brokenly, his hands tugging hard at his hair, hurting his head, but it's not enough to stop the onslaught of pain he feels.
The hand keeps rubbing his back, now gently skimming his side with their fingers. Something else comes into contact with him. It's something that feels like a feather, light and soft, brushing his face. Even through closed eyelids, he can see this - like a ray of gold, the soft glint of warm yellow light bathing his vision, turning the night to day.
The pain is softly subduing, the sound gently dulling down until he can't hear it anymore. Everything feels too quiet now, silence filling the empty space left by the screeching.
A familiar feeling rushes over him then, a fuzzy, warm feeling that emanates from a single spot in his forehead. It wraps him up, fixing the damage slowly. The ringing in his ears is gone, and so are the tears, now dry. The feeling is gone.
He opens his eyes, and he catches something - a flash of gold that catches the setting sun, flames that burn dimly before Simon. Then he hears a rush of wind, and silence fills him once more.
Now that the presence is gone, a deep feeling of loneliness settles upon him. He tries to imagine, to recreate the warmth mentally, the comfort of being touched by those hands, but as hard as he tries, he can't.
He doesn't see the feather that falls behind him.