** Angel Eyes **
Written By Stephanie Hickman
November 2003
Prologue - Angel
Crysta ran.
She ran fast but wearily down the street, simply the moon lighting her way through the dark night, a pool of spotlight on a seemingly empty and lonely stage. The wind tore through her flaxen hair, making a mess of tangles, a wild mane, and the brutal storm hit her tired face, stinging her pale cheeks. Her white dress was muddy from the fields, the lace was torn, her previously magnificent make-up a dreary smudge down her face.
She couldn't tell how far she had run, only that it was never far enough. Her feet were tired, yet her heart egged her on, taking her to an unknown destination through the French hills. In any other circumstance she would be terrified to walk the deserted French countryside at night, the howling of wolves and hooting of owls around her, damp grass clinging to her ankles. But tonight was different, all she knew was to get away, to run until the pain stopped, until her heart stopped aching. She didn't know when this would be, but presumed it would happen. She hoped it would. Prayed with all her soul that it would soon.
Her heels stuck in the thick mud, and each step was as a marathon, long and weary, yet full of grim determination. Rocks stuck up from the uneven path, and many times had she tripped, stumbled over the rough outcrop around her. The trees bent around her in menacing claws, and shook as if trying to reach out and grab her. She looked ahead of her path, and only saw darkness, as if the world had died along with her happiness.
At the sound of footsteps behind her, she stopped abruptly, turning around, eyes wide in fear. All was dark, and there was no follower. She watched the path a moment longer, listening to the trees rustling around her, sounding like harsh whispers to her ears, before beginning her race again, perhaps a little faster and more frantic this time.
Suddenly, a rock caught her ankle just right, and she was sent tumbling over, landing in a heap on the floor. She hit it with a dull thud, resounding in the quiet night. She propped herself up on her hands, her veil over her face, and tried to brush it back. As she did so, she began to cry, sitting up and looking at her hands. They were covered in blood, her own from grazing them as she fell, trying to stop her plummet. The red caught the moonlight and glinted at her, swirling as she moved her hands. She wiped them on her dress, cringing at the pain, and continued to cry. Her quiet sobs shattered the silent night, and it felt as if she were the only being left on the planet. She put her head into her bloody hands, her golden but shaggy hair falling around her face, and wished she were dead. She was good as anyway. She had no idea where she was; this part of France was unfamiliar and unwelcoming to her, and she knew she would not find her way back, at least not until morning, and the night was still young.
She willed herself to get up, but could not move. Her body just would not work, too tired for her mind to command it, and she sat helplessly, wondering if this was her fate. Footsteps could be heard again, but this time she dared not to look up, in case someone really was there. The footsteps stopped, and the next moment, she felt a hand on her shoulder. She cringed from the touch, yet could not pull away, only managing to look up, snivelling still. Her eyes hardly worked, and all she could make out was a dark silhouette, shrouded in shadow. The head seemed to have a golden rim, a shine to it, surely from the moonlight, and as her eyes adjusted, she caught a glimpse of their eyes. The moon seemed to live in them, reflected at her, but they were dark, almost black, and piercing beyond belief.
The man handed her a handkerchief, and she took it cautiously, wondering whom this stranger was. He didn't say anything, just smiled gently at her, and stood up. As soon as he did, car headlights appeared on the road. He turned and looked at it, and took a step back into the hedge. He looked back at her, that kind smile still on his face. "Pas le cri, Mademoiselle. Vous êtes sûr ." Don't cry, miss. You are safe.
She didn't have time to take in his words, for the next moment, there car was beside her, and the door had been opened. She looked at the car and saw her friend getting out hurriedly, and glanced back at the man. He had gone.
"Ai! Crysta!" her friend cried loudly, coming down next to her, clutching onto her arm. She embraced her, but when she continued to stare into space, she shook her gently. "Crysta?" "Vous l'avez vu?" Did you see him? she asked, staring at the empty space by the side of the road. "Qui?" Who? Her friend looked at her sceptically. "Il n'y avait pas qui autrement." There wasn't anyone else. She turned to look at her friend, her tears no longer in her eyes. Could it be that she had seen things? No, he had given her his handkerchief, and it was still clutched in her hands. She wouldn't let it go for dear life, and she continued to stare as her friend attempted to haul her up and into the car. Eventually her friend flung her into the car, and shut the door, leaving Crysta pinned against the window, not believing that he could have just disappeared. Her friend got in the other side, turning on the heating, and started the engine again. "Jean," she began, her voice hoarse. The car started to pull away and Jean glanced only quickly to her friend's tear stained face. "Oui?" "Croyez-vous aux anges?" Do you believe in angels?
Written By Stephanie Hickman
November 2003
Prologue - Angel
Crysta ran.
She ran fast but wearily down the street, simply the moon lighting her way through the dark night, a pool of spotlight on a seemingly empty and lonely stage. The wind tore through her flaxen hair, making a mess of tangles, a wild mane, and the brutal storm hit her tired face, stinging her pale cheeks. Her white dress was muddy from the fields, the lace was torn, her previously magnificent make-up a dreary smudge down her face.
She couldn't tell how far she had run, only that it was never far enough. Her feet were tired, yet her heart egged her on, taking her to an unknown destination through the French hills. In any other circumstance she would be terrified to walk the deserted French countryside at night, the howling of wolves and hooting of owls around her, damp grass clinging to her ankles. But tonight was different, all she knew was to get away, to run until the pain stopped, until her heart stopped aching. She didn't know when this would be, but presumed it would happen. She hoped it would. Prayed with all her soul that it would soon.
Her heels stuck in the thick mud, and each step was as a marathon, long and weary, yet full of grim determination. Rocks stuck up from the uneven path, and many times had she tripped, stumbled over the rough outcrop around her. The trees bent around her in menacing claws, and shook as if trying to reach out and grab her. She looked ahead of her path, and only saw darkness, as if the world had died along with her happiness.
At the sound of footsteps behind her, she stopped abruptly, turning around, eyes wide in fear. All was dark, and there was no follower. She watched the path a moment longer, listening to the trees rustling around her, sounding like harsh whispers to her ears, before beginning her race again, perhaps a little faster and more frantic this time.
Suddenly, a rock caught her ankle just right, and she was sent tumbling over, landing in a heap on the floor. She hit it with a dull thud, resounding in the quiet night. She propped herself up on her hands, her veil over her face, and tried to brush it back. As she did so, she began to cry, sitting up and looking at her hands. They were covered in blood, her own from grazing them as she fell, trying to stop her plummet. The red caught the moonlight and glinted at her, swirling as she moved her hands. She wiped them on her dress, cringing at the pain, and continued to cry. Her quiet sobs shattered the silent night, and it felt as if she were the only being left on the planet. She put her head into her bloody hands, her golden but shaggy hair falling around her face, and wished she were dead. She was good as anyway. She had no idea where she was; this part of France was unfamiliar and unwelcoming to her, and she knew she would not find her way back, at least not until morning, and the night was still young.
She willed herself to get up, but could not move. Her body just would not work, too tired for her mind to command it, and she sat helplessly, wondering if this was her fate. Footsteps could be heard again, but this time she dared not to look up, in case someone really was there. The footsteps stopped, and the next moment, she felt a hand on her shoulder. She cringed from the touch, yet could not pull away, only managing to look up, snivelling still. Her eyes hardly worked, and all she could make out was a dark silhouette, shrouded in shadow. The head seemed to have a golden rim, a shine to it, surely from the moonlight, and as her eyes adjusted, she caught a glimpse of their eyes. The moon seemed to live in them, reflected at her, but they were dark, almost black, and piercing beyond belief.
The man handed her a handkerchief, and she took it cautiously, wondering whom this stranger was. He didn't say anything, just smiled gently at her, and stood up. As soon as he did, car headlights appeared on the road. He turned and looked at it, and took a step back into the hedge. He looked back at her, that kind smile still on his face. "Pas le cri, Mademoiselle. Vous êtes sûr ." Don't cry, miss. You are safe.
She didn't have time to take in his words, for the next moment, there car was beside her, and the door had been opened. She looked at the car and saw her friend getting out hurriedly, and glanced back at the man. He had gone.
"Ai! Crysta!" her friend cried loudly, coming down next to her, clutching onto her arm. She embraced her, but when she continued to stare into space, she shook her gently. "Crysta?" "Vous l'avez vu?" Did you see him? she asked, staring at the empty space by the side of the road. "Qui?" Who? Her friend looked at her sceptically. "Il n'y avait pas qui autrement." There wasn't anyone else. She turned to look at her friend, her tears no longer in her eyes. Could it be that she had seen things? No, he had given her his handkerchief, and it was still clutched in her hands. She wouldn't let it go for dear life, and she continued to stare as her friend attempted to haul her up and into the car. Eventually her friend flung her into the car, and shut the door, leaving Crysta pinned against the window, not believing that he could have just disappeared. Her friend got in the other side, turning on the heating, and started the engine again. "Jean," she began, her voice hoarse. The car started to pull away and Jean glanced only quickly to her friend's tear stained face. "Oui?" "Croyez-vous aux anges?" Do you believe in angels?