Disclaimer: I don't own Indigo Prophecy, but I wish I did. There should be more games like this out there. Well, except for the ending, which I won't spoil here.

Rated: T for language, violence

Please R&R, comments make me happy.

Twenty-One Heartbeats

by Whittaker

I SMELL… something.

Before David opened his eyes, he smelled something. Something… pungent and heady, delicious and rich. Something kind of like bleach, but a little like red wine. It tickled the hairs in his nose, coyly teasing him to remember where he had smelled it before.

It was something unnatural. Not artificial, like antiseptic or air freshener, but something that didn't quite belong. It was winter outside, and the cold always stole away the smells first. This was a full and warm-bodied smell, not the hollowness of snow and ice. David couldn't place it.

But it was too comfortable beneath the covers, in the world that existed only under his blanket. It wasn't worth waking up for. David could somehow tell, without opening his eyes, that the alarm on the nightstand wouldn't ring for at least another five minutes. The numbers would glow with the consistency of a lighthouse: five fifty-five A.M.

At six, the radio would blare. The announcer would state that it was the fifth straight day of below normal temperatures, traffic was already backed up on the Kennedy Expressway, there was another murder on the South Side overnight. Today's Smart Start quiz question is: from what country did jai alai originate? Caller seven with the correct answer gets a trip for two to…

David would then hit the snooze button and get ten more minutes of sleep, before rolling over, wiping his eyes and shuffling into the shower. Ten more minutes to sleep, perchance to dream, to snore, and to wonder what that smell was…

What is it? So familiar…

Maybe his dreams would tell him. Someone would talk to him in David's dreams, with comforting words and visions. David couldn't make out what the voice was saying, but that didn't matter. He heard sweet tones of undulating regularity, like waves crashing on the sand. Distinctly female, indistinct focus. Clear sounds, muddy message.

It was like floating in the womb. The warmth, the sound, the smell. The timelessness. Waiting on pins and needles for the alarm to finally ring, to be violently born into the bright morning and face the day like a newborn.

David opened his eyes.

The clock read 2:17 P.M. Feeble sunlight seeped into the room through the drawn blinds. Shadows clung to the ceiling and walls like cigar smoke. The air was suddenly too thick, the blankets suffocating. Beads of cold sweat formed on David's forehead, because he suddenly realized that he was being watched.

I know the smell now… it's bl… it's blo…

David sat up in bed, and saw it all. From head to toe, spatters of blood on his socks and jeans. Stains of red on his shirtsleeves and fingernails. Flakes of it in his hair and on his lips. He could taste it in the back of his throat. He wanted to vomit, fiercely and suddenly. An damp oval stain of maroon surrounded his body, soaking the sheets through to the mattress.

On the windowsill, a raven – massive, swollen beyond any kind of natural proportion – eyed David intently. With a clack of its beak and a tilt of its head, it opened its gigantic black wings and flew away into the cold January sky.