InvasiveThoughts.com

    I wake up in a motel. Not a hotel, there is nothing clean or tidy about this place. This is one of the dingy, broken, run down places johns bring prostitutes during their lunch hour. My head is pounding. I feel like I had been drinking tequila all night long, the vomiting re-enforced that theory. This seems like a perfectly normal situation except for the fact that I have no idea who I am.

    Panic rises in me; this is no normal morning after grief. I know my alphabet, I know who is president. What I don't know is who the hell I am. I move through the motel room like a storm. Something in my mind tells me to search for some kind of clue, anything that tells me what is going on. 

    Adding to the confusion is the fact that I'm naked. I find some clothes rumpled on the floor.  A pair of black slacks, a black button up shirt that seems to fit a little too big, and a black leather duster. Underwear and socks are in the bathroom, shoes are stuffed under the bed. This is the sort of random chaos that breeds hellish events, so I know I'm in a lot of trouble.

    I shuffle through the pockets of the pants and find a ten dollar bill and a single card:

 Simon Cross: Attorney at law.

    There is a phone number provided, buts scratched out, along with the address. No luck there. So my name is Simon Cross, and I was a lawyer. It’s funny, I don't feel like a lawyer. I check the pockets in the jacket. Nothing in the side pockets, but when I check the inside pocket I hit pay dirt, so to speak. I find a smooth ovular stone, my first instinct is to throw it away, but when I inspect it further I notice orange letters beginning to burn into the rock. The burning letters reveal yet another name and an address:

 Earnest Molina: 443 Clemency Ave

    My confusion is quickly doused by a blinding pain assaulting my head. Heat from the stone travel through my body and light my brain on fire. Images pound their way into my brain. I see a man standing in his back yard in the dark. It’s raining and he is breathing hard. He has a shovel, and is crying. I can taste his tears in my mouth. Somehow I know this is Mr. Earnest Molina. Even more inexplicable is the fact that I know I must find him as soon as possible.

    I searched the room again for any sign of money or something I can use to barter with. I have no luck, but I do find the key to the motel room, I scoop it up and put it into my pocket. I step outside into the cool night, interestingly enough; I don't even know what month it is. It feels like early November, but that's a guess. A chilling realization came over me, along with the month; I don't know what year it is. How can I know who the president is, but not what year we're in? I ponder this as I walk the chilly streets.

    I stop at a convenience store where I learn the date as well as purchase a pack of cigarettes and a road map. Late November, almost December. I may not know who I am, but something deep down tells me I really hate this time of year.

    I light a cigarette and check the road map for Clemency Avenue. Roughly six miles, and I have no money left for cab fare, so it would appear i will be on foot.

    This gives me time to think, and I have a lot of thinking to do. Unfortunately all my thoughts hit roadblocks.

    A light rain is falling, and my back hurts. I light another cigarette, wondering what Earnest Molina has to do with me and my memory loss. Icy cold shivers run down my spine as I ponder. Whoever he is, I don't think our meeting will end well.

    It takes me a little over two hours to reach Clemency Avenue; the rain is starting to come down a little harder. Mr. Molina's home is nestled in the heart of a rundown suburban neighborhood called 'The Conclave'.

    His house is midway down the street. I know there is going to be trouble; all the lights are off in the home. It is early evening, a car is in the driveway, and every other house around him is well lit. His home is a black hole in the neighborhood, sucking in all feelings of warmth and safety. Even as I approach the front door I know he is in the backyard, standing over a mound of dirt. His agonized face flashes again in my mind as I touch the doorknob. He is crying.

    The door is unlocked and I enter his home. I feel dirty doing this, like I am violating this man's inner sanctum, which of course, I am.

    The hallway is lined with photos of Mr. Molina and a woman. They are holding hands and seem very much in love. They are kissing at the beach; they are standing in line at what looks to be an amusement park. As I pass one by one each picture falls to the floor, I hear glass cracking. Curiously, this does not alarm me. Why does this not alarm me? I'm in his living room now, amid tan pleather couches, a flat screen plasma TV, and horrible off white carpeting. The door to the back patio looms before me; I know he is out there. Now I'm afraid. I don't know what is going to happen; I don't know why I'm here.

    I slide the door back and step out into the patio. There are no patio lights, but I know he's out here in the yard. I can hear his heartbeat thudding louder than mine.

    I don't make a sound as I make my way behind him. He knows I'm here. He stiffens up as I approach.

    "I knew you would come," He said.

    I was at a loss. How could he know I would be here? I didn't even know what I was doing until I was doing it. I knew I would have to play this close to the vest if I were going to get any information out of him. I don't want to give away my weakness, obviously he knows me somehow.

    "So you know there is a problem," I said vaguely.

    He stepped to the side, revealing a mound of dirt and a shovel, which instantly sent shock waves of revulsion through my body.

    "What do you think?" he said.

    My brain is on fire. I fall to my knees as the images return. I feel vomit in my mouth, I see a woman, the woman from the pictures. His wife, Mrs Molina. They are laughing together, it's a bright sunny day, and they are holding hands. Darkness falls and rain pours down, they are screaming at each other.

    Somewhere far away I hear his voice.

    "She found out. I couldn't let her go to the school board, or the police. It would ruin my life. For what? Just for my love of children? Their innocence is perfume. I could not allow it."

    I vomit.

    I burn.

    As the truth sinks in, I want Mr. Earnest Molina to suffer. 

    I stand, seething with fury. My body is burning in righteous fire. I notice his eyes widen at the sight of me. Smoldering snapshots of small children suffering under his leering face cycle through my mind.

    I roar.

    The rain pounds harder. My ferocity beats back the rain. My back is on fire, I feel my skin separate. I am no longer afraid. My hatred blocks out all other emotion. My epidermis splits on each side of my back. It’s a minor inconvenience. I feel something slithering out of my back, I don't care.

    I advance on Earnest Molina with a new clarity of why I'm here. He knows it too. He knew all along, I'm just getting the clue.

    Whatever was coming out of my back has finished, I feel it unfold. His terror is at its peak as I behold what I am.

    Long black wings spread with menace expand out. These are the archetypal wings of the Angel.

    He doesn't even try to run.

    At this point, I wish I could run. I grasp Earnest by the shoulders and lift him high in the air. I had no Idea I was so strong. He stares into my eyes, and it’s as if he knows something I don't know. His shoulder slump, he stares blankly at me, waiting for my wrath.

    I do not disappoint.

    I wasn't even conscious of it, but the dark wings that now spread from my back fold over and point their razor sharp tips directly at Mr. Earnest Molina. I pull him close and for the first time I can smell the scotch on his breath. It awakens a longing in me that I don't understand and suppress with great effort.

    "You are the destruction of innocence. You are a poisoned spirit, wading in malevolent intentions. You are the poison, I am the antidote."

    I plunge the tips of my new wings deep into his chest. I was running on instinct. I could feel an energy flowing through these wings, to the tips, and into Mr. Molina. The energy feels like pure fire rushing out of me and into him. If he could, he would have screamed, but all he can do is quiver in misery. He has totally retreated into himself.

    It is time to end this.

    "Burn in Hell," I say.

    His mouth opens wide, but he doesn't make a sound. He is being consumed by whatever came through my wings into him.

    His body is shriveling into a husk of a human shell.

    He is gone.

    I fall to my knees.

    Is this why I'm here? The images in sick mind are still floating around in my head. They swirl around in a tornado of torment and sin.

    They stop after a moment, and a new fresh set of images replaces the horrific ones I saw moments ago.

    I am staring up at a great crucifix, below is a marble tabernacle. Assorted clergy wear masks of terror, I hear screams.

    I awake from my strange visions. Mr. Molina's husk of a corpse is lying on the ground now atop the mound of dirt his wife is buried under.

    I may not know who I am, if I am indeed a real person, but I do know my purpose. Visions, burning rocks with addresses, giant black angelic wings, can only mean one thing; I am a divine enforcer charged with bringing sinners to justice.

    My wings have now retracted, my job is finished for the moment and I am left disoriented. I suppose I should go back to my motel room and ponder what this all means.

    Who was I before all this? Who was Simon Cross?

    Mr. Molina's body has turned to ash and is stirring in the wind as I leave his back yard. The cold light rain has now become a frozen deluge, but I don't seem to mind. Mind thoughts are consumed by matters at hand, making the weather a non issue. Besides, if I am an Angel I can’t get sick, can I?

    I reach into my pocket and retrieve the burning rock.

    "What now," I ask.

    There is nothing spookier in this world than when you ask fate a rhetorical question, and it answers you.

    As I peer down at the rock, the letters that formed Earnest Molina's name disappear, and new letters burn into the rock forming another name.

Sarah Kurtz: 8801 Noble Quarter Dr.

    I'm not as motivated this time to seek out the name on the rock. I don't want to  hurt anyone. I understand they deserve it, maybe it's the amnesia talking, but I don't think I'm the right person for this job. Doing what I did to Mr. Molina did not empower me. Sure I was outraged, and angry, but I am not a murderer. I don't know what I am, and I don't know what I'm going to do about all of this. I do know that if I visit Sarah Kurtz that I will end up devouring her soul, the same way I did Earnest Molina.

    I produced my map and located her address on it.

    What have you done Ms. Sarah Kurtz? What have you done that deserves the fate they want me to hand to you?

    I conclude that it does not matter. I won't be doing this again.

    I feel better. My mind is made up; I control my destiny once again.

    I turn around and walk the other way. I put as much distance between myself and the general direction Sarah Kurtz lives in. I feel right about my decision. I know in my heart that murdering a murderer still makes you a murderer. I can't be that.

    I feel good, I feel right, and I feel the wind begin to pick up forcefully. I brace against the wind, pushing my way toward destination unknown. I will not go to Sarah Kurtz.

    The wind slams against me hard, pushing me back. I struggle hard against it, only to be pushed farther back towards the way I came. I'm beginning to realize that something is wrong, this is no ordinary wind. This wind screams malevolent intent. It slams against my body; it whips around my legs, lifting me up.

    I cry out in shock as I grab hold of a lamp post. The wind has flipped me horizontal. I'm about three feet off the ground, whipping in the wind like a flag. My grip is slipping, my heart is racing. I can’t hold on much longer. I close my eyes tightly, as my fingers slip off of the lamp post.

    I feel myself ripped away, flying through the air against my will. Those wings, those vile black wings are back out, pulling me through the air. I scream, but don't make a sound.

    Behind my eyes I see screams in the church, priests falling, and parishioners running in terror. The air leaves my body as I am torn backwards towards my horrible destination. I now know that whatever divine force that has commissioned me for this wicked task is not going to let me off the hook so easily. I can't just choose to quit.

    I hit something solid and fall to the ground. I see a shadow loom over me, as blackness surrounds my vision and swallows me into nothingness.

*****

    Reality begins to coalesce around me again. Shape and color form in the outline of a woman's body. She is standing over me, the rain has stopped, but there is still a chill in the air.

    She is quite beautiful. She has long brown hair tied back into a pony tail and almond eyes. She wears a little too much eye shadow and lipstick for this time of night. It's forgivable though, since I'm in utter pain and she's willing to help.

    I stand up and immediately wish I hadn't. The world spins, and I stumble forward in a clumsy drunk action. I may have a concussion.

    "Are you alright?" She says.

    I've always found it rather annoying that people will ask you the most obvious inane questions in the midst of a crisis. Next she will ask me if I've had some sort of accident. She holds me by the shoulders to steady my swaying and nauseous body.

    It was a fatal mistake.

    Again, the visions come. I thrust my head back in agony as I see a woman crying, in a bathroom. She's leaning over the bathtub. It's the woman who's holding me now. I scream in pain as I realize what is going on.

    In the bathtub, submerged in the water is an infant. This woman is holding an infant under the water.

    I howl.

    The child's eyes are staring into eternity, dead under the water. This woman is weeping, spitting, vomiting.

    I reel away from her, clutching my head, screaming in misery and pain. Of everything I was made to witness, of everything I will be forced to see, this is hell enough to witness and I wonder if I share punishment with these poor bastards.

    I spit out bile as I realize she is still here with me, looking confused.

    "Oh Sarah, what have you done?" I say, still choked by the grisly vision I had endured.

    Confusion rolls over her face, as well as something dark and far away.

    "How...how do you know me?" She stammered.

    I say nothing. What could I say?

    I'm here to kill you.

    I'm here to rend your soul and deliver you to eternal torment and damnation.

    At first it seems as if Sarah hears me. A strange recognition falls over her face. She turns to run, she knows.

    This time I feel no rage. I feel a deep pity swell in my heart for the innocent life she destroyed. I am overtaken by an overwhelming sadness. As she runs I hear her screaming into the darkness.

    "I had no money, I was raped! I had no one to turn to!"

    I knew I should feel bad for her circumstance, that’s what society has programmed me to do, but her pleas merely bounced off of me. I was shielded by the shining light of an innocent infant snuffed out of existence in a selfish blaze.

    She's halfway down the street at this point.

    I don't even need to try. Halfheartedly, my wings expand. I rise up, ten feet into the air. I can see her running, turning around periodically to see if I'm coming. She won't even see me. I darted towards her, dark wings flapping majestically. She stumbles, and falls forward.

    It's all over now.

    I overtake her like an owl falling upon a field mouse. I violate her abruptly with the tips of my wings, just as I had with Earnest Molina. I not only hear her scream audibly, but I feel it deep inside of her. I see the infants’ final moments as it struggles for breath underwater. I see her eyes go just as wide as the poor child's. I feel her essence draining out of her, as she turns to ash. There is no satisfaction this time.

    As her soul flutters through me, the visions continue. Again, it is not of her sin, but of an enigmatic scene I have yet to encounter. I am in the church again. Clergy and worshipers scream all around me. Gunfire sounds off in single blasts.

    More screams.

    I see a dirty, angry man yelling in my direction. He's waving a gun at random people and opening fire.

    He's panicked.

    Over the gunfire I hear him yelling at someone near me.

    "We'll never make it out of here, we need a hostage!"

    I see him tear a man from his wife and children. The wife screams, I see gunfire come from near me and the wife drop down into silence.

    The scene changes abruptly. I'm staring at the gunman, secluded in what looks like a cave, or an old fallout shelter, something enclosed. He's got the hostage with him; he's grinning like a madman.

    I snap back to reality just in time to witness myself falling from ten feet in the air. My wings have once again retracted. I curse at them, along with my current lot in life as I pick myself up from the ground, sore and most likely bruised.

    I have now personally condemned two souls to hellfire. I limp down the street wondering who's next on my grisly list. I seat myself on a nearby bench. My body hurts. I hate myself, I hate my life, or at least the last few hours of it, since I have no idea what my life was like before this winged demonic angel insanity.

    I feel the smooth stone in my pocket; I know there is another name on it already. I can feel it pulling my hand towards the pocket, beseeching me to draw yet another lot of doom. I light a cigarette and ponder the woes of a rotten existence. I know I will very soon pull that stone from my pocket, but I want to put it off for as long as possible. I can't get used to what I'm doing here. I can't reconcile the fact that I'm murdering people, even if they deserve it. What's worse is the fact that I'm all alone in this. If I am a divine messenger, where is the divine?

    My smoke is almost gone, and curiosity is getting the better of me. Again, I pull the stone out of my pocket. Sure enough, a new name is inscribed into the stone.

Franklin Gleason: 1142 Denouement DR 

    Something cold runs through me when I read the address. It's like that spooky kind of deja'vu that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Something frightful drops into the pit of my soul. I start walking, and I'm surprised to realize that I know the way to Frank Gleason without even consulting my map. I walk for two hours, not lifting my head once until I reach a street sign well let in the moonlight; I have arrived at Denouement Dr.

    I know I don't want to do this. The feeling of personal dread weighs on my like an anvil. I begin walking down the street. I've seen all these houses before. It's less of a residential neighborhood and more of a high class slum. I reach 1142 and kick in the door. The sweet sickly smell of recent death invades my nostrils. I walk through the hallway, into the master bedroom. I know my way around this house intimately. The smell is stronger, pungent. I toss the bed aside with ease; I'm a lot stronger than I should be.

    There it is.

    A trap door waits for me. I know that Frank Gleason is housed down there in terror. He knows I'm coming for him. He knows me. How do I know all this?

    I throw the hatch aside and descend down the darkened entrance. This is an old access to a basement. I heard water dropping from old pipes, and the faint sound of whimpering.

    The smell of death is more and more pronounced as I delve deeper into the basement. Frank is alive, but something is dead down here.

    I've reached the bottom of the stairs. There sits Franklin Gleason, huddled in a corner, slowly rocking.

    "I knew it'd be you, Eric," Frank says.

    The name he uses is unfamiliar, yet chills me to the bone.

    "I'm afraid you've got the wrong guy," I say.

    Frank laughs. His laugh is hollow and almost sad.

    "This is no time to grow a sense of humor," he says.

    For the first time I notice a slumped figure next to Frank. It's the body of a naked man, dead. I gag on the sight and scent of death; he must be dead two days.

    Frank regards him with mock pity.

    "Yeah, poor Simon didn't stand a chance with us, not after the gut shot he took."

    I startle, the name sends shock waves through me.

    Simon?

    "Simon?" I barely manage to speak the name.

    "Yeah, Simon something...Cross, Simon Cross. You should know, you took his wallet and clothes."

    It all comes back in a hellish flash. The church, the parishioners, the screaming, and the gunfire. It was all me. I'm in the church with Frank, we're screaming at the parishioners to empty their wallets and jewelry into our plastic bags. In warning I shoot the crucifix on the altar, riddling it with bullets. The priest screams in outrage, and I shoot him in the head. Frank opens fire into the crowd hitting a young child and her mother. The kid looks all of three years old, she falls in silence, eyes wide open. I join Frank in a frenzy of blood lust, hitting an elderly woman and several other people. I hear Frank screaming that we're not going to get out alive and that we need a hostage. Then I grab the man. The man lying here dead in this basement. Simon Cross, attorney at law. Simon begs for us to release him, using his wife and children as emotional bargaining chips, so I shoot them as well. I then shoot him in the shoulder and we drag him out of the church.

    Frank is still here smiling at me.

    "Hellfire isn't meant to be experienced alone."

    I fall to my knees. All the air leaves my lungs.

    This is why I'm here. This is my penance for all the horrific things I've done. I'm a murder every day, of ever hour, for the rest of my existence. At least the poor bastards I send away are no longer stained with the foul blood they have spilled. It's burned out of them in torment and suffering.

    Frank approaches me with a deep sense of apparent sympathy.

    "Let's get out of here, huh Eric? We've done the damage, we need to cut out and start over. Just me and you, huh? What do you say?"

    I can't even be angry anymore. It's all about me now. I want the world to die, and me along with it.

My wings extend once again, perplexing Franklin beyond all measure. He was expecting his friend and criminal cohort, not the Angel of Death. To his credit, he does try to run. He doesn't get very far though. I catch him before he hits the stairs. Again my wings plunge in, again I feel the terror and torment. I feel every disgusting deed Franklin Gleason ever propagated. I feel deep sickness within me as I realize I was an integral part of far too many of his misdeeds. His body turns to ash, his soul consumes in flame.

Goodbye Franklin

Everything is quiet once again.

I am alone now with the body of Simon Cross. I killed him. I’m staring at him with a fascination I’ve never known before. I circle his body.

“I don’t suppose an apology would mean anything at this point.”

I feel stupid.

“Can you tell me why we do these things? Is it desperation, conditioning, or are some people just born evil? Can you explain to me why I murdered your wife and child before shooting you and taking you hostage?”

I circle the body once again, becoming agitated.

“Is this the divine plan of the almighty creator? Tell me! Are my abhorrent actions a part of God’s plan!? Tell me how the evil that men do can be sanctioned by one who is supposed to care for us!”

I nearly jump out of my skin as I hear a small moan waft softly through the basement. The moan turned into a voice. The voice sounded like a ragged whisper, barely able to form words, a dying breath.

“This is not God’s plan. God has no plan. The other one however, is a mastermind.”

I am in shock. I had not expected a response from a corpse.

“The other? You mean...”

I nearly fall over as I see the body of my murder victim rise into a great slump. His face is pale and cold. He points at me and laughs.

“Oh yes, his plan is a spider web of genius. You and so many others are nothing more than facilitators of his grand design. God gave up long ago, but he hasn’t. No, we’re his children. There is no heaven or hell, but there is an afterlife, and its none to pleasant I assure you. We go to him, we feed his insatiable lust.”

Until now, I was under the impression that I was exacting some sort of divine vengeance for sins committed. I was punishment. I was wrong. I am merely a harvester, a thresher collecting the souls of the damned. This is everyone, all of us. In all of this something odd occurred to me.

“If I sent you to hell, why are you here?”

He snorted.

“Hell! Hell is just a word. It’s an easy context. There is no word for what awaits us beyond the stretch of our mortality. Pain, torment, sorrow, desire, lust, ecstasy, none of these words even begins to fit as a paltry description.”

My patience was gone.

“What are you here?!?”

For the first time he looked straight at me. Not just at me, through me.

“Quite simply put, I want my coat back.”

I want nothing more of any of this. I am held by a terror I never thought possible. The tables have been turned on me. I was the nightmare, now I am the prey. My own murder victim is standing before me, demanding the clothes that I pried from his cold dead body. It was surreal. Even more strange is that I was more than happy to oblige him. I didn’t want the stain of all that I’ve done upon me anymore. I shrugged off the coat, and tossed it to him.

“Is that all? Is it that easy? Have I earned any respite? Have I earned any clemency with my dark deeds?”

He merely chuckled a death rattle.

“You haven’t been paying attention. You’ve done no one any favors. Pawns garner no special treatment. They do their jobs, and then fall before the higher powers.”

He reaches into his coat and pulls the dreaded stone of judgment. Franklin’s name disappears into a whiff of smoke, and a new name takes its place in a fiery blaze across the face of the stone.

Eric Vance

Eric...me, I am Eric Vance. The name burned into my rock of doom is my own name. My memories come rushing back to me in a flood. I know who I am, and I remember every vile thing I’ve ever done. I know immediately that I deserve the fate that this reanimated body is looking to enforce upon me.

The smile on Simon Cross’s dead face tells me all I need to know. I’m just a loose end about to be tied up.

He advances on me like a zombie from a late night creature feature. My logical mind tells me that all I need do is turn around and run; he’d never catch up to me. Something else in my mind speaks to me. It tells me that no matter where I run, or what I do, this creature will catch me and give me my just rewards.

I run anyway.

I get about as far as where Franklin got when I feel fire burn into my chest. My soul and my flesh ignite at the very same instant. I turn around and see Simon’s dead face alive with maniacal glee. The stone is blazing, sucking in my entire being. My arms and legs dissolve into nothing. I can’t even scream. My chest explodes, my brain is on fire, and on the horizon of my consciousness I see a world beyond hell. I see ferocity of the spirit, a perversion of the senses, and a land of devious desire. Far off in the distance, I see an entity. He, she, or it rules over the land, standing hundreds of feet tall, blazing torment from all appendages.

I see oceans of rotting souls, all making their way towards the maw of this hellish over lord. I am soon to join them. Simon Cross will soon be returning to them. My eyes close as I plunge into the sea of death, ready to begin my tenure of the damned.

My eyes then open again.

I appear to be lying on the ground; I see a crucifix above me, watching me with beneficent care. This iconic piece of plated metal infiltrates my imagination and sends me ghostly promises of redemption and forgiveness.

My view is rudely obstructed by a crowd of people. Men women and children circle above my hazy sight. Simon Cross is there, very much alive. His has removed his black leather duster and folded it several times, placing it under my head. I try to look around behind the malaise of people.

I see Franklin Gleason in the distance looking Ashen and forlorn. Two police officers flank him, as I notice he is in handcuffs.

I try to sit up, but fire burns in my stomach. It immobilizes me enough to where the only thing I can see is my shirt soaked in crimson.

I’ve been shot.

I’m still at the church and I've been shot. Nothing else after had come to pass. I am not a winged angel bent on hellfire justice. I am a petty thief and murderer who is about to atone for his crimes.

I’m being loaded onto a gurney by two EMT’s. As I’m wheeled away Simon Cross stays by my side. If history was the way my visions produced I was to shoot him and his family very shortly. To my relief this is not going to happen. I am comforted in the knowledge that I will spend the rest of my life trying to clean the deep stains my soul has bled. I resolve here and now to not end up in the inferno.

Simon is next to me as I’m being wheeled to the ambulance. I see his mouth moving, yet I do not hear a word he says. His face is concentrated and grave. We reach the ambulance; the two drivers walk to the front and enter the vehicle. I’m curious as to who is going to load me into to the back. Simon unlatches the doors to the ambulance and swings them open. He hovers above me with a benevolent smile on his face, yet when he speaks I cannot hear his words.

Something is wrong here.

He hefts the gurney with the strength of three men, and hoists it into the back of the ambulance, a wicked grin on his face now. The back of the ambulance is engulfed in flames.

I feel my flesh searing, my mind breaking, and the last thing I see is Simon Cross shutting the doors to the ambulance, a set of the blackest wings of death stretch out from his shoulders, his laugh hysterical as he sends me on to my just rewards.

The end.