Wounds of Filth
Chapter 3: Remeber
By: DeathIsOnlyTheBeginin
DISCLAIMER: I DONT OWN TEEN TITANS...JUST INCASE YOU EVER, YOU KNOW, THOUGHT I DID...YEA...I DONT.
(Enjoy! Read and Review Please!)
The dark sun's rays raged against each other as the battled their way across the dry ground, the soil gray and scorched from their fury. All sign of plant life had long since shriveled and died away, leaving nothing, but a soft whisper of what once was, behind. The sky strangled any aura of welcome and joy from the air, emitting hopelessness to reign instead.
Tired feet slapped down upon the eroding soil, smoky wisps of dirt swirling around the owner's ankles and toes. The ebony sunlight cast a long, deadly glare into a river of flowing, black hair, each strand tucked up into a hair tie, the free tresses cascading down into the still, humid air. The woman glanced up at the retched sun, her brows knitted in exhaustion as sweat rolled down the sides of her face. She had to keep going...she could not stop.
This woman, known as Angela, stared down at her large, childbearing stomach, her eyes dewing with tears. She had been a fool. Her brown irises hid themselves in shame, their closed lids tense and quivering. Tears snuck away, weaving through her thick lashes before trailing down her cheeks. She reminisced of her past, of her once, now shattered, destiny.
A fanatically proper man stood before a younger version of Angela Roth, his tall, intimidating stature sending a slight shiver up her spine. She focused on the book in his left hand, the fingers of which, expectedly woven with a red rosary. His stern face, equipped with two, small gray eyes, was tilted down at her, his lips mumbling in prayer. She remembered his insanity, recalled his extreme infatuation with religion and the catholic ways. A long since faded cry of finality echoed through her ears and the sight of her old front door swinging open was next in her vision. The strict, stiff form of her erratic father now forever banished to her rear. That man would abuse her, mentally and physically, no longer.
The busy lights of Gotham glared down at her childlike self as she ran, tears flowing down her face as rain hit her full force, a fierce storm littering the overhead sky. Panting, she found herself standing before a very large cathedral, her small form solely supported by a lone light pole, her fragile body fighting against the wind's torture. Angela's shoulder length hair whipped around her face in the storm's furry, her fingers gripping the wet, metal pole for absolute life as the raging wind attempted to blow her away. Her weak knees gave out and she felt herself slip down the slick pole, a cry of "Father" fleeing her lips in an act of final desperation. She choked on a sob, perfectly aware that he would never come for her. She knew quite well that he probably hadn't even noticed her leave; or that he, with much more likeness than the former, hadn't cared.
Her eyes traced the church brokenly, her knees raw against the pavement below her. Its many towers and red stained-glass windows seemed to open their arms to her, call to her, beg her to come inside.
Lightning illuminated its semblance for a moment and she screamed, fear of death and the angry sky creeping up her spine. A postbox blew past her and she pulled her body tighter to the streetlight, her eyes clamped shut as she cried out.
When the flash died away, Angela allowed herself to pull in a shaky breath, her small, premature body, looking extremely brittle as her tangled white dress wetly clung to her. With a groan, she climbed to her feet and used the rest of her energy to run towards the cathedral, suddenly aware that her soles were bare and tarring on the cracked pavement.
She slammed up against the church's tall, oak door, shoved by a sudden gust of wind, her hair slick and shinning in the lightning. The young girl moaned in pain as she searched blindly for the handle, panic tingling in the depths of her nerves. Finding it, she gritted her teeth and pulled, relief flooding her nerves as it opened. She scrambled inside and winced when the large wooden slab slammed behind her. The rage of the violent storm suddenly dull in her ears.
Angela's breathing was harsh as she glanced around the large chapel, rows upon rows of pews leading up to an alter before her. She stared down at her feet, her eyes catching sight of a puddle pooling around her feet. She bit her lower lip lightly before pushing herself away from the door, the wounded pads of her feet, slapping against the marble floor/ What she searched for, she didn't know; a friar, a priest, a nun. It didn't matter, she was tired of being alone, anyone would do.
"Who's there?" A growly voice came from behind her and she jumped in surprise. Angela turned around only to find a withered, old man staring at her oddly, his body draped in a red and white robe. A set of thick framed glasses magnified his dark eyes about three time their natural size.
His mouth parted in awe and his ridiculously large pupils stretched even wider. With a gasp, he fell to his knees, one hand pressed over his heart. Angela rushed to his side, quickly knelling beside him,
"Are you alright!" She cried in worry, her eyes examining his shock trodden face. His unbelieving stare locked onto her chocolates and she inhaled quickly, startled.
"So, you've finally come," he said, a small smile on his face.
The present day Angela smiled weakly, "Dromio." She ran a hand over her stomach, her eyes sneaking a peek at the man leading her over the dry wasteland beneath her feet. The back of his head met her irises, his tall, muscular body hidden by that of a red leotard and cape. She shook her head; where was he taking her?
"No, no, no." Lady Garn scolded her, a worn hand reaching out and slapping Angela's creamy wrist. She dropped the cup and watched as the goat's blood sprayed across the floor and over her feet. The old woman before her gasped before dropping to her knees. Hurriedly, she began to wipe the crimson up with her black dress. Angela watched in what seemed to be a daze, her hands hanging at her sides as she stood stiffly, not moving.
"Foolish girl," The hag mumbled before climbing to her feet and wringing the bottom of her dress over a large, silver bowl. Angela's eyes shifted and she watched the blood pour from the fabric and splatter against the steal basin.
Lady Garn looked up to find the girl staring and quickly roused her from her bemuse with a clap on the shoulder. The teenage girl shook her head and focused on the old one before her.
"I don't be a'knowin why Dromio likes you so. You're nothin' but a stupid wench." And with that, the bent old woman huffed off, her dress swishing around her ankles.
Angela glanced back over at the silver bowl, the life juice within it, settled yet swirling slightly. She dipped her index finger into it and inwardly cringed as the liquid rubbed against her skin. She had been wrong, this was no church, this was the home of a Satanic cult, a cult that she now belonged to.
"Angela?"
She jumped and tugged her finger from the ruby, her hands locking together behind her back as she acknowledged Dromio. He smiled and extended a hand,
"It is time."
Angela stared at the dirt, her eyes glaze with a far away look as she remembered the goal Dromio, her teacher, had set for her. She, as the result of all her satanic influence, had been selected to bring Satan to the earth.
Wide, brown eyes gazed up in wonder at the man who stood before her, the fingers of her hands woven into the palms of Dromio and a young man named Cane. Her breathing halted in her bosom, her fully bloomed, womanly features painted with the look of sheer awe. This man was the most beautiful being she had ever seen, with his long, dark hair. The angelic tresses were bound low on his neck by a ribbon as ebony as the locks themselves. His smile-raised cheeks brought a crinkle to his golden-specked eyes and Angela felt her heart melt. He extended a hand as tan as the rest of him in her direction, stepping over the many sacrifices that lay dead on the floor.
She pulled free from her captors and accepted the stranger's offer, feeling giddy and bewitched. He smiled brighter and lifted her to her feet. Angela's white and red robe fell from her shoulders, where it had been simply draped. A wavy, sleeveless, red dress adorned her perfect figure as he pulled her into an embrace. The pair disappeared immediately.
Angela bit down on her lip to keep from sobbing out loud, her feet entirely dust covered. The man, Trigon, had taken her body with his own in a long night of passion and lust. It was only afterwards, when his seed was rooted and growing within her womb, had he revealed his true daemonic stature.
He had transformed from that handsome young man into a terrible, red beast. Standing four times her height, with a set of twisted horns and four glowering yellow eyes, Trigon easily held Angela within his power.
With a fistful of her long, curly hair, Trigon had pulled her up to face him. Angela had desperately tried to push away from him, but his grip was far too strong. Her naked body held the stench of their sex, of her foolishness as he told her of his intentions, of their child's future.
A shiver ran down her spine and she tugged the brown piece of cloth, which was wrapped around her torso, closer to her body.
Angela stared down at the busy street below, her toes hovering just beyond the roof edge of the tall building she stood atop. The wind tossed her curly hair around her face, some wisps clinging to the corners of her mouth while others matted down against her tear polished face. This was the only way, the child within her could not live.
With a final sob, she lifted her arms out like a pair of wings and plunged forward. The air whistled past her ears as Angela fell, her long, indigo dress flapping against her legs. She left tears behind her as she plummeted towards the buzzing street below.
Angela's heart raced in her chest, blood thundering through her temples as the full realization of what she was doing set in. She closed her eyes and prepared for impact, praying to God for forgiveness, grace that she did not deserve. With the last of her wishes said, Angela waited for the sounds of breaking bones and the scent of blood. To her immense surprise, the impact never came and the howling wind ceased.
Cracking open her eyes, she glanced around, only to meet the stare of a young man, his arms wrapped around her waist as they floated in the air. His shocking blue eyes bore into her own sets of brown and Angela felt herself blush under his gaze.
"It is not you time." He whispered blandly, his arms tightening around her. She nodded stupidly, not knowing what to do or how to reply. A fit of sobs suddenly caught up to her and she buried her head in the strange man's shoulder, tears and cries seeping into the fabric of his outfit.
And, as a result, he had taken her here, to this place where nothing grew and no real light touched down. Angela's stare burned into the man's back, a greatly desired answer to a nagging question thriving in her chocolates. Who was he?
All he had told her of himself was that he was a messenger, and that he had been sent to retrieve her and bring her to his planet, a place he called, Azarath. Angela glanced around, a small frown tugging at the corners of her lips. So far, she wasn't to greatly impressed with his home.
"We're here."
The sudden break of silence caused her heart to quicken and Angela turned her gaze back to him, her feet soon residing next to his own. She stared up at a large gate. Concrete fencing stood at it's sides and branched out and wide, blocking all sight of anything beyond. Slowly, the barred gate opened and the messenger grasped one of her hands. He pulled her inside.
Angela gasped at the sight before her, its magnificence shimmering in the auburn of her depths. The man, whom hadn't ceased in the holding of her hand, guided her around temples of meditation and temples of gods. She took in the sites with a gaped mouth, her feet moving on their own accord.
When the messenger finally halted, Angela stopped behind him, her eyes still lost in the sparkling city of peace. The man knocked on the door in front of him and when it opened, pulled himself and the woman inside. It closed behind them, shutting off all light.
Angela felt the baby within her kick and she rubbed her stomach softly, in attempt to soothed the fretting unborn.
"You have brought her?"
"Yes, priestess."
"Then you have fulfilled your task?"
"Yes, priestess."
"Good. You may return to your duties now. I'm am greatly thankful"
"As you wish, priestess."
Angela felt the man drop her hand slowly, almost as though grievous to let go, and leave, letting a small strip of light fall across her face before banishing her to the darkness once again. A light shuffling met her ears and she gasped glancing around the ebony plagued room.
"Do not fret, child. I will not harm you."
Light suddenly filled the room and Angela's eyes were greeted with the sight of an astonishingly beautiful temple, thousands of candles flickering, casting a warm glow over her pregnant form. Directly before her, was a throne chair and in its seat, was a radiant woman, her features resembling that of an angels. The woman smiled warmly,
"Do not be afraid. Come now, what is your name?"
Angela fiddled with her hands, wringing her fingers nervously, "A-Angela, ma'am."
The woman chuckled and stood, her body poised as she walked towards Angela's anxious figure. Her small feet circled the expecting mother slowly, the long, luminous white robe that adorned her slender curves, flowing in a way that resembled the calmest of rivers.
"Hmmm...I think not," Her smooth voice soothed, "Your name will not be Angela here."
Angela looked at the priestess in surprise, her eyes questioning,
"Pardon?" She asked, her voice meek and nimble. The woman smiled and closed her eyes, her head shaking slightly,
"We shall call you Arella. And you can call me Azar."
Arella hung her head, a hand resting on her large stomach,
"As you wish, Azar."
A pair of violet eyes traced the intricate patterns woven into the solid metal of the Titan Tower's ceiling. The navy of a cloak wrapped itself around the slender form of the avatar lazily, her breathing silent and deep. Raven's mind was a puzzle of much needed emotional assortment, the very shadows of her manacle past swallowing the remembrance of her mother, Arella, completely.
Robin eventually pulled himself to the front of her thoughts, his serious and handsome features twisting her mind into a tangle of confusion. She and he were so much a like; they both had troublesome upbringings, both had the same habit of isolating themselves from the rest of the team, both shared the same respect for perfection and planning. She chuckled, knowing that they were both as stubborn as the other was. But yet, they always seemed to argue and never managed to get along.
A hollow knock sounded at her door, rousing the mystical girl from her thoughts instantly. She sat up and crossed her legs, allowing herself to float above her bed slightly.
"Come in," Raven called monotoniously, her eyes closed as her hands came to rest upon her knees. The sound of the door swooshing open met her ears, the reverberations of footsteps following soon after.
"Raven! Hurry, there's trouble!"
Her eyes shot open in shock, her bottom landing on the top of her beds with the lack of her concentration. Blushing brightly beneath the shelter of her hood, she wondered how she had missed the screaming alarm. She watched Rpbin dash from her room and she flew from her comforter, her cape fanning out behind her.
1/14/2011:
For writers everywhere, I just want to give a heads up to ANYONE who reads any really old story by me and then feels the need to leave a ridiculous, anon review and rant like some child about how dreadful they think it is - I don't care what you think about anything, so don't waste my time. I'm just going to delete your flame anyway, so you might as well not bother to leave it - however, if you must insist upon posting one, I wish you happiness in your futility.
That being said, if you flame - SIGN IN instead of just popping on here like some coward and trying to rip me up over something I wrote AGES ago (ha!). If you flame and then refuse to sign in and offer up your own writing to back your mouth up, keep your mouth closed. I wrote this story 6 years ago. It's an old, amateur, raw piece of work, and I know that. I was only 14 when I started it - but for 14, I did a damn good job.
It's comical that you think you can judge someone's writing capabilities on the shortcomings of their 6-year-old pieces of work - honestly, that just cracks me up. You should know that despite your high opinion of yourself and your obvious belief that I need your "expertise", I'm just laughing at you. I do not need your praise or acknowledgment to validate myself as a writer, and I don't need your dimwitted, ignorant advice. I write very well and I know it. God bless.