Incorrect Eyes

by Andromeda Ruins

they’re incorrect; what are they?—of more bystanders on me as I do. I need to get away, I need to hide. Why are they watching me? I keep my head ducked as I run, trying to get as far away as possible. I don’t know where I’m headed, just that I need to get away.

I can see a faint reflection in the blood, something that looks almost like a wing. But when I look back over my shoulder there’s nothing, just an empty street.

But it doesn’t feel right. Something nags at me, tells me that I shouldn’t be in front of a church so late.

It tells me that I am unsafe in the House of the Lord.

But it’s a church, right? What harm could it do?

Maybe she’s right.

NO

ignoring overwhelming sense of dread that tells me I’m making a mistake.

Before I can pull the door open I feel a presence behind me. My shadow is creeping up the wood of the door, growing taller and taller in front of me despite my lack of movement.

The chill of the night is gone in an instant, replaced with a crackling heat and thick tension.

The stench of burning hair reaches my nose not long after.

Be Not Afraid.

Be Not Afraid. Face Us.

I am forced to stand there as the light burns, and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

In the other, there is a bloody maw dripping gore and viscera with a torn intestine dangling from it’s teeth.

The image of those Eyes weeping blood as They are splattered like oversized gushers catches me off guard.

I can’t describe the appendages, they are beyond what I can comprehend.

I have been searching for this Angel my entire life; been shuttered from my church for asking about it, spent countless hours in therapy talking about it, dreamt about it, searched the knowledge of the ancients for years in a cramped study room for it. And now it’s here. Floating in front of me.

my hand, my breath, my very consciousness—comes to a still.

Too much— I don’t want— I can’t— I need— I need to leave, I need to leave NOW.

Blood wells around my hand and blurs my vision further and I know. A wave of relief rushes through my body as the realization that I will never have to see anything again.

It feels good in the worst way,

The Angel, it’s still watching, I can still see it. It’s smiling down at me with perfect teeth—no, with vicious eyes and a bloody maw—no, with—

I drop it to the ground, listening for it to hit the wood floor before softly tapping my boot out in front of me until I locate it. The obscene noise it makes when I squish

It’s the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.

Complete and utter darkness blesses me. The only blessing I have ever ...

I can no longer see, but I can finally breathe again. I know the Angel is still there, I can feel the heat radiating off of it. It’s visage is sear...

I know, but there is nothing I can do as the wail of sirens pierce the air. The air that has become thick with my now silent screams, the viscous blood running down the sides of my face blocking the noise. I can do nothing but fall to my knees on the wet wood of the church floor as I bleed in front of the Angel. Is this what we consider Holy? Is this what we have spent so much time trying to find? What we hope and pray to see when we die? ...