I don't own anything I've written. I had the urge to write some Mad!Angeline. I know it's confusing, but it's supposed to be. I'm not going to ruin the ending with nagging you for petty reviews. So I will now. Ahem: Please review?
My eyelids fluttered. They were like butterfly's wings, fluttering magically, flicking peacefully. The image ingrained itself into my mind.
Two fluttering wings, black wings with pale bodies, fluttering on my face where my eyes should be.
Mentally, my face transformed into an Artic tundra, the paleness I knew I must have, turning into a pure white plain with jagged rocks as my ckeekbones and jaws. The pink of my chapped lips iced away.
The sun came through my thick curtians, blazing my eyelids.
I saw monsters, terrible monsters.
There was a heartwrenching picture on my table, I knew.
It could see me.
It was watching me.
He could see me!
He could see my pain.
He could see me weak.
I thrashed, moaning and moving my limbs gripped and pulled something.
"The sheets?" A small, familiar voice in my mind said. It was young, it made my heart soar, something that was rare in this pit of torture.
Where was I? Where was this Hell?
"Your room," it said, lovingly. As though it took pity on me.
I thrashed more. I didn't need its pity. I didn't need my son's-
My son! That was the voice! I remembered him suddenly, fondly. He was the last thing worth living for now.
Was I even living?
Well, I reasoned, if there was anything worth beans here, it was the warmth of my son's voice.
"Mother?" A stoic, familiar voice said.
Who was this? Why did he call me Mother? I didn't have a son.
I cracked one of my eyes open, and gazed. My room was electric with light. I pulled my hands over my eyes.
"Close that window! Shut those shades!" I shrieked, burying myself under my . . . sheets! That's what my son called them. Wait- son?
I peeked out. I saw a boy. Was he my son?
"Yes," the warm voice whispered, his voice crawling like slime through my consciousness.
But, this boy he couldn't be the warm thing in my mind. The voice in my mind cared. He wanted to help. This boy stared, and scared. He didn't seem to care.
The boy had dark hair, and blue eyes like . . . I forget who. But he was great! And wonderful! And beautiful, for all his wrongs!
But, I can't remember why. I remember this boy. He is familiar. But, he is foriegn.
Why can't I . . .
"Mother?" the boy's pale spiders tried to hold my hand. Wait, he had no spiders. They were pale, boney fingers, much like His.
Who is he? Who is He?
This strange child looked at me in confusion.
"Don't stare at me! It hurts me!" I insisted. His gaze burned because . . . because . . . Why couldn't I remember?
"Mother are you alright?" He asked.
"I am not your mother! Leave!" I shrieked, and buried myself under the covers again, where my son was loving . . . and I had Him . . .
He was my husband! He was Artemis! My Artemis!
Then, I rolled underneath the sheets, to be on my side, then I forgot again. But . . . where was my son?