Falling

Prologue: Watching

                      We start this story in a hallway. It isn't a hallway in a suburban home or a high school; as a matter of fact, I'm not even completely sure of the exact location of this hallway. Now You may be thinking, 'Why the hell should we care about the hallway? Get to the good stuff." Well, you should care about this hallway. This hallway, this dark place where the walls glow an eerie red and the hard, marble floor is darker than starless midnight, this hallway where reason gives way to fear and sanity gives way to its insane counterpart, this hallway leads us to our hero, or so I hope that that's what he'll be.

               Our journey through love, lust, lies, betrayal, heartbreak, revenge, redemption, and enlightenment begins in the small room at the end of this corridor. As we make our way toward the open door at the end of this hallway, a flickering light meets our eyes, much like the flickering of a television in a place much less horrid than this. We pass through the doors and we're met by a sight that seems ordinary at first glance but, upon closer inspection, we will soon realize that this is anything but. In the room opposite the door, we find a couch. And on that couch, what we can assume is a dark haired man with thin, shoulder length hair.

     The true extraordinary phenomenon in the room is the origin of the flickering light we witnessed earlier. Nearest the opposite wall, facing both us and the man on the couch is a pedestal with six, lit, black, half melted candles lining the front base of the octagonal surface. Now I know what you're thinking and, No the pedestal isn't so remarkable that we've all fixated on it but the real spectacle is what is hovering directly above. A sphere of light. No, not light. But a sphere of moving images, much like a movie. We inch closer, slowly, slowly, trying not to disturb the being who is oh-so fixated on the hovering sphere. The images come into focus as we ogle at the round mass.

                      Walking along a cement sidewalk was a girl. An ordinary, American girl, with an ordinary suburban existence. But then again, she was an extraordinary beauty... In her own way of course. She wasn't like those paper thin "supermodels" of today in the sense that she was generously endowed in several departments. Her long, black, waist-length hair contrasted directly with her skin; which looked like it was carved straight from the purest ivory. As she turned and began walking backwards, it seemed as though she's talking into the camera, smiling and laughing.

                        Our breath hitches as we get the first glimpse of her startling facial features. Our eyes fall on deep, stormy gray eyes, heavily lidded by thick, dark lashes and perfectly applied, thick, black eyeliner. Her nose, that would seem too big on most, fit her features perfectly. A little lower and we ran into her lips. They're full and painted a bright shade of red. She twirls, still moving forward, but twirling all the same, giving us our first glimpse of her body, as lace clad and generous as it is. A black lace dress with spaghetti straps that runs down to mid-thigh falls loosely and gracefully over her fragile looking shoulders and down her DD breasts and hugged her thin waist and shapely hips before hanging over her thighs.

                        She moves closer and closer and closer as her lips shape into a kiss. Once she stops moving, we're looking into her eyes. We notice the tiny flecks of green mixed in with the gray of her eyes just before they flutter shut. That's when we realize, We're looking at her through someone else's eyes. And that someone else is now kissing this beautiful girl that we've just witnessed. At this thought, the dark haired male on the couch sat up from his slouch and reached out to the floating sphere, groaning as if experiencing a pain like no other.

                            The image faltered and shook; abruptly growing dark before more gruesome scenes appeared. Scenes of torture; images of walls splattered with blood; stormy skies. Lightning strikes and a piercing scream fills the room; the first sound that originated from that sphere. We realize that through these petrifying scenarios, the mysterious being on the couch had begun to shake violently before, at the same time as the scream, he drew in a sharp intake of breath. Then, as the room went dark, he collapsed.  We turn to exit, thinking the show was over. A hoarse whisper meets our ears, the whisper of someone in unbearable anguish.

"She's Coming."