Starseeds: The Broken-Winged

|1| Nightmare

Please feed me back with constructive criticism 

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I didn't know where I am.

I cannot hear anything, touch anything and feel anything to give me an indication of where I could be. All I can see is an incessant baleful, noxious, ominous obscurity. And for some reason, I was scampering, an atypical terror battering my insides. I reduced me rapidity, and all of a sudden, whispers can be heard, as if ghosts decided to come and molest me with a demoralizing viciousness through murmurs and mutters.

I cannot clarify what the anomalous phrases they're whispering, yet the whispers produced this jittery feeling inside me. Not because of the unexpected unruly nippiness, but of the knowledge of not knowing who or where these whispers are coming from. I ignored the theory of ghosts living here – come on, ghosts aren't real – although, as I gaze harder at the darkness entrapping me, I was proven erroneous. The darkness is . . . shifting. Moving. Like shadows. The whispers are coming from the obscurity. From the shadows.

Out of the blue, I see a woman. An old woman. Dressed in grubby, mucky, cleaved rags. She's sprinting. Trying to. Her left leg seems to be injured judging by the fact that she's limping, and there's blood saturating her shredded, rag-like trousers. For a second I couldn't figure out the reason why she's running, until I comprehended that the darkness – the hefty shadows – are chasing her, terrorizing her, mocking her, attempting to latch onto her withered arms.

"Leave me alone!" the elderly woman implored, her voice hoarse from startled tears. "Leave me alone!"

"You called The Malefic for assistance," the shadows snarled atrociously. "This is her assistance."

"I take it back!"

The murkiness ensnared the old woman. She gyrated around, her burgundy, puffy eyes amplifying as the shadows hovered above her. Her crumpled cheeks are blemished with tears. A three-digit number is marked on her forehead.

"I take it back!" she screamed. "I don't want her assistance! Not anymore!"

The darkness guffawed sombrely. "Once you call, she will come. It is the same with him. They will take your most valuable possession. They will make sure you have no salvation."

"It was a mistake!"

"A mistake? It is never a mistake. You called her. She answered. There is no going back. No deals. No pleas and pleases. Nothing."

The woman scanned her surroundings, finding a method to flee. "But she's not here," she said; her expectancy withdrew when she realised she is actually ambushed. "She's imprisoned. She can't escape. She's gone. So she can't hurt . . ."

The old woman's voice trailed off abruptly, her eyes engrossed in front of her.

A pallid arm, smeared with blotches of menacing crimson and chilling burn marks, immerged from the iniquity darkness, and the silhouettes exposed a face. An indistinct one. As if the shadows were given commands not to expose the person's identity.