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townofcrosshollow · 21 days

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This project is currently unnamed and very early, so I'm not sure about sharing it anywhere more official until I've written more and gotten a better handle on it. But I'm happy with it so far. Synopsis: A suicidally depressed man discovers a dying fallen angel in the woods. In nursing it back to health, he not only finds a reason to keep living, but discovers a darkness in his heart he'd never even imagined. Massive CW for suicide, depression, alcoholism, religious imagery, and a little gore.

Every day when the early morning sun was hovering just below the horizon (on the days he wasn't blackout drunk), Samson would put the noose around his neck. He'd originally tied it what, a month ago? It could have been two or three by now, as a cocktail of SSRIs and vodka had started to turn time into a haze of half-remembered days. The calendar on the wall was two years out of date, the clock on the stove blinked all zeroes after a power outage (he didn't have the manual to figure out how to reset it), and his cell phone was at the bottom of the lake out front.

Samson learned how to tie a noose in Scouts. Or more accurately, he figured it out himself fucking around with ropes while the other kids were following instructions. It had been a poor approximation of the real thing as used for generations of cruelty, but he'd tied it secure and gotten it to tighten around another boy's neck. It was a joke, obviously, but they didn't see it that way. That was the last time he went to Scouts, but only the first of many nooses he'd tie over two decades. This one felt nice and strong, secured to a beam in the roof of the old cottage's attic with a stiff hitch knot. It was an old polypropylene rope his daddy used to use to keep the boat in place by the docks. Maybe the reason he hadn't kicked out that stepladder yet was the image of this stupid fucking blue-and-yellow striped rope around his rotting corpse-neck when they found him, bloated and maggot-ridden and leaking fluids all over the attic floorboards. "What a pathetic bastard," they'd say, and they'd be spot on. But the walk to the hardware store was long, and he sold the truck to stock up on liquor, so he was caught between laziness and his last remaining shreds of dignity.

Today that shred went out the window. Samson found her number on the side of the fridge where daddy used to keep all his contacts (daddy always had a shit memory even before he got old, and he passed it on). He tried dialing it into the old landline and only realized he was still paying for that shit when the call connected and her voice came through loud and clear. "This is Cynthia Dawn, I'm not at the phone right now. Leave a message and I'll get back to you." Her voice was soft like downy feathers and blindingly bright. The voicemail Samson left was probably worth a restraining order. So that noose was looking nicer than ever, and that stepladder was looking flimsier than ever.

Samson would never find out if he was really gonna do it that day, cause in that split second before, as he stared out at the sun rising over the lake, the room went ablaze with a light more effulgent than any he'd seen. In an instant his vision went white, only pierced by soft little pins of red and green and blue, like when you press down on your eyelids with your fingertips. No matter how tight he squeezed his lids closed, hoping to banish the flash, it was like he was staring straight into the sun. Tears started streaming down his cheeks and drenching his beard.

And then it was over. The light retreated out through the attic window, leaving Samson's world dancing with colours like an impressionist painting. He stood there a long moment, heart heating in his neck, mouth dry, wondering if he'd just seen God or if a stun grenade had been silently lobbed through his window. With shaking hands, he slipped the noose off his neck and climbed down off the ladder. He took a few tentative steps towards the window, pressed his hands against the glass, craned his neck to look out. The lake was so placid it was like time stood still, stained golden by the sun's rays spilling out over the horizon. Out to the left side of the cottage, the shed where daddy kept all his fishing shit back in the day. It was untouched, both by him and by whatever caused that light. But off to the right, where the woods sprung up around the old slipway, there was a dying remnant of that glow that bleached the leaves and filled the sky with an odd haze.

He grabbed one of daddy's rifles from the safe and slipped a hunting knife in his jeans pocket before setting off out the back door. The lawn that spread out from the cottage to the road was overgrown, dotted with those little white wildflowers. It would've looked picturesque, if it weren't for the rusting lawnmower, the dying garden twisted with weeds, the dilapidated guest house that hadn't been used in a decade. Actually, come to think of it, this might have been Samson's first outing beyond the cottage walls in weeks- he'd been subsisting on canned food, liquor, and over-prescribed Zoloft for god knows how long.

So for the first time in weeks, he walked down that old paved road until the sign for Fire Route 41 came up on his left, just past the slipway. The gravel road seemed to wind on for eternity through those woods, dotted with the occasional cabin that lay vacant- it was just coming up to the end of the off-season, and soon eager tourists would swarm the lake looking for a fantasy of the life Samson grew up hating. For now, though, the woods sat still apart from the glow that beckoned him.

The light faded as the determined man grew ever closer, threatening to be extinguished any moment and leave him at a loss. A few times, he wondered what he was hoping to find at the source of that divine glimmer. The face of God? Salvation? Some kind of science-fiction portal that could whisk him away from this existence into a more prosperous one? He clutched the rifle against his chest as he stood there on the edge of the woods, the epicenter of the glow just a few dozen feet away. It was waning dangerously low now, no longer capable of blinding Samson, leaving the spot looking like a sun-bleached photograph. Whatever he was looking for, he trudged ever closer to his prize.

And through the trees, in the underbrush, a thing unlike any that Samson had seen revealed itself. At first he wondered if an egret had been shot down, as a layer of downy white feathers was scattered about the trees like berries in spring. Just past the treeline, a pair of massive white wings spread across the ground, broken and twitching like a thing about to die. They glittered like fresh snow as he got closer, rifle raised to put the poor thing out of its misery. And then the wing shifted like a bolt of pain had rushed through it, and he heard a cry of anguish unlike anything bird or beast could produce. Something soft and melodic, like a piano screaming in pain but trapped by the beautiful temperament of its keys. And when those feathers moved away, beneath them, Samson saw a writhing, contorted body of nude flesh punctuated by cuts and scrapes that oozed a thick golden fluid. The bird-thing turned, craning its neck, looking up at the man that towered over it. Its lips were parted as if in prayer, its eyes staring down the barrel of daddy's gun.

Samson lowered the rifle as he looked into the face of God.

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#writing #untitled project #i hope somebody likes this!#i like it lmao #cw suicide #cw depression #cw alcohol #cw religious imagery

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townofcrosshollow · 11 days

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This is part 2 of an ongoing horror romance story about a depressed and isolated man finding new life after rescuing an injured fallen angel.

You can read part 1 here.

CWs for this chapter include graphic violence, references to alcoholism, and sexual innuendo (lots of it)

Samson had used a knife on flesh before, but never while the creature was still squirming. It was clear just at a glance that the angel-thing was suffering- he even considered for a moment whether to put it out of its misery like a deer that had a run-in with a car. But upon stepping closer to it with that hunting knife raised, he realized that the thing was far from morally wounded. Its whole body was scraped and bruised, but only those wings were broken. Those massive, unweildy wings.

At the base, where feather met flesh, it didn't look good. The bones had both dislocated. A significant amount of meat had been torn off, revealing mottled flesh under the pale skin- blue like spoiled beef, shimmering in the ambient light of the thing's own aura. More of that golden "blood" had started to run down its back. It drenched the ground beneath it like paint. That bleeding needed to stop if this thing was going to not die, but it looked like there was no saving those wings. So Samson slung the rifle over his back and pulled out his hunting knife.

The thing was compliant, almost docile in the face of the knife. Its screams quieted to whimpers. Samson got it prone and kneeled down straddling its back, golden stains pooling on the front of his jeans. He grabbed the wings and spread them out as best he could, feeling those downy soft feathers between his fingers. Its skin was soft too, and cool like a placid lake.

Samson unsheathed the knife, its serrated blade glinting in the holy aura of its soon-to-be victim's body. His hand was unsteady and his head swimming. He slid the blade between the ripped edges of skin on the thing's right wing. Everything came sharply into focus when he could feel the resistance of skin against metal. Gritting his teeth and holding the grip tight like a lifeline, Samson started to saw. More cool blood coated his hands as muscle split and tore around the knife's jagged edge. When he finally reached the skin, it stretched and shifted along with the serrations. He had to force it, his strokes further, faster, harder. And then he nearly caught himself in the leg as the last little piece of skin finally snapped.

Time for the second one. Sweat dripped from Samson's chin, his breathing quick. Underneath him, the thing wasn't squirming anymore, but it was whimpering, crying out little sounds of pain. Its cries were still bordering on musical. Hearing them, those melodic notes, a strange euphoria bubbled up in his chest and clouded his mind. This one was easier- or maybe it just felt faster, as he wasn't sure how well he could rely on his sense of time anymore. The blade sliced through muscle like butter, every little bit of fiber snapped rewarding him with more beautiful crying. With the last sawing motion, the pieces were finally disconnected, and Samson kneeled there panting and coated in the thing's golden blood. The creature was silent.

That's what this was all about- blood. Fuck. Mind clearing, Samson ripped his shirt off and started slicing starting cuts into it to tear it into shreds. This would have to do until he could get back to the cottage. With wads of plaid against the wounds, he started wrapping up its torso in DIY bandages. He had to grab the thing by the shoulder and pull it up slightly to get the bandages around its chest, but its head wasn't limp- a good sign.

Kneeling beside the thing, he turned it over on its back. It was passed out cold. Samson slipped a hand under its shoulders and another under its knees, lifting it into his arms. He was surprised by how light the thing was, maybe around 90 pounds, and 5'4" at least. Its body was slim yet soft, not bony or angular in the slightest. Its dainty hands hung limp, and its head lulled back into his arm.

The thing was stunningly beautiful- soft, a slight pout on its soft bluish lips. Reminiscent of a Bouguereau. A head of long, dark hair was draped over Samson's arm, glittering in the morning sun. "Angel" was clearly the appropriate term for it, this creature forsaken by God, left now in the arms of a sinner. What awful timing, too. Arms heavy with a new responsibility, Samson trudged back to the cottage.

The guest house on the lakefront property was in a state of disrepair ever since daddy died. Maintaining it was far too much work, and he didn't like to come in here anyway. But the roof wasn't leaking, and the floorboards were intact, and the lights still came to life when Samson nudged the light switch with his shoulder. It was barren- he'd sold most of the usable furniture years ago. An old fridge was disconnected and pulled out of place next to the cabinets by the wall, and an ancient wooden stove was against the opposite wall. Its flue disappeared into the roof. Probably still blocked up. He never bothered to fix it. A wrought iron framed bed sat in the corner, its mattress ancient and its sheets worn. The walls were originally wallpaper with a layer of beige paint over top- where it had flaked off, a flowery green design showed through. This was going to have to do.

Samson gently laid his "guest" down on the bed, careful to arrange its sleeping body into some semblance of the recovery position- something he remembered from his days of getting blackout drunk around other people (as opposed to the more private arrangement he had now). He pulled the sheets up to cover the thing's crotch- he had tried his best not to look. It seemed disrespectful.

He smoothed the creatures hair out over its shoulders, which rose and fall with gentle breaths. Just for a little he sat there in that moment, hand hovering over it, watching it breathe. How long had it been since he'd touched a living thing?

This was not important. With a deep and ragged sigh, he went to fetch the first aid kit.

The next time he opened that door to the guest house, Samson was greeted by that face again. The angel was not upright, but hunched over and supporting its weight with its arms, its legs splayed out beneath the covers. Stringy hair hung limply from its scalp, obscuring parts of its face- but its eyes peered through, locked in Samson's gaze. They were pale grey, like a foggy morning.

His instincts took hold and Samson approached slowly, not making any sudden movements, like he'd spotted a spooked dear. "You're awake," he observed, his voice hoarse. "Do you... speak?"

This being only stared, leaning further back as he approached like a cat ready to pounce. Maybe his approach was correct- maybe this thing was feral. But then, eyes still locked on Samson, it slowly lowered its head in a nod.

"But not now? Okay." The thing might have needed some time. At least it seemed to understand him. "I have bandages here. I'm going to patch up your wounds, until I can find a way to get you to... a hospital, I guess." Would a bird-person go to a hospital or a vet? Now that it had no wings, was it just a person?

The angel-thing didn't move. It just stared.

Samson kneeled down slowly by the bed, placing the first aid kit down and opening up the latches. "I need you to turn around so I can see your back."

There was another moment's lag, but then the thing complied. It shifted around to sit cross legged, facing the wall, its hands bunched up in the sheets to cover its lap. From the back, just as from the front, the shapes of its body were stunning. Although it had barely been fifteen minutes, the skin of its back was soft and smooth, still drenched in dried golden blood but otherwise flawless. Hadn't it been bruised and scraped the last time Samson ran his coarse fingers along its back?

Samson slipped a pair of cold metal bandage scissor's between the thing's back and the remains of his shirt (he had been so frazzled by the situation that he had almost forgotten he was half naked, until this moment brought his blood-covered bare torso sharply into focus). As the "bandages" fell away, what was left behind puzzled him.

There were no more remains of bone there- all had been covered up by that mottled blue flesh. The bleeding had stopped, and the edges of the skin were no longer ragged and torn. Rather, little tendrils of it snaked across the open wound, connecting to each other and forming a strange network of branches across its surface. Like a slime mold searching for food.

Grabbing his supplies- a bottle of isopropyl alcohol, a clean rag, and a long strip of gauze with packing material to accompany it- Samson climbed up onto the bed to get a better vantage. Kneeling with his legs on either side of the thing's body, he ran his fingers along the strange web of flesh. The angel only winced a little, leaning further forward and gripping the sheets tighter.

"You heal fast," Samson muttered, holding the rag up to the mouth of the bottle and soaking it just a little with alcohol. "I'm going to disinfect it with alcohol, okay? It's going to hurt."

The thing nodded and braced itself, shoulders hunched forward. The moment the rag hit its broken skin, it let out a sound somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. It was familiar for some reason- a sound that made something happen in Samson's chest, a quickening of his breath, a feeling he couldn't quite put into words. But he carried on, rubbing the cloth into its back in little circles, that feeling rising in him more and more as its little cries of pain continued.

"I'm finished," he whispered, the dropping the gold-soaked rag on the bed beside them and grabbing the gauze. "I'm just gonna wrap it up, and you can rest."

Unspooling the length of gauze, Samson reached his arms around the angel's chest, to grab the other end and start looping it around. He had to push himself up against it to reach, his jeans pressing against its lower back and his skin against its soft, nude flesh. For that moment of contact, he could feel its breathing matching his, quick and uncertain. Was it pain, or was it that same feeling that had lodged into his chest and wouldn't go away?

Once the wounds had been covered up, Samson ran his fingers slowly down the creature's back. He didn't want to leave this moment. But he had to go. He got up from the bed, dusted himself off. "It's all patched up now. I'm done with you."

The angel turned to look over its shoulder at the man. It said nothing, just nodded, its eyes locked on Samson. Its brows were drawn up, the corners of its eyes a little wet, and its lips curled into the slightest smile.

This was not the last time this angel would look that way at its new host.

#untitled project #cw alcohol #cw violence #writing #original fiction #cw gore

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