Page 2 of Drag You Down
Don’t let the demons grab you.
I let out a sigh of relief when the path opens up into a small courtyard. It looks unused, completely forgotten. Every window of the buildings on either side have been shattered, shards of glass emerging from the overgrowth surrounding it. Even the bricks beneath my feet have weeds growing around them, protruding from the ground and defying the bleak, urban gray.
Despite its decrepit state, it’s a small sanctuary in the middle of the disgusting city. There’s a metallic scent in the air, familiar in a way I don’t want to think about, and I hurry across before my curiosity can get the best of me.
I spot a gap on the other side, one that I think will take me to the streets again.
I just have to walk a few feet in relative darkness, and the light of Father Zachariah’s embrace will be in reach.
Then I hear it.
A gurgle.
“Hel… Hel…” a raspy voice whispers.
I gasp and turn, fumbling not to drop my grocery bags.
This is my fault for letting my mind wander, for letting the thoughts of destruction infiltrate it.
This is my fault for stepping into the dark.
God is always watching. God is always judging.
“Hell?” I echo back, my voice trembling. “Who said that?”
It takes me a second to spot the lump of clothing lying along one of the building walls. It stretches a hand out to me.
My eyes widen when I see the growing stain all over the front of the cloth.
I drop my bags and raise my hand to my mouth to cover up a yell.
It’s a man, not a pile of trash. He’s bleeding, crying out, reaching for me.
Calling me to Hell.
I swallow and shake my head. “I’m… I’m not yours,” I say unsteadily. “Go to where you belong.”
A pathetic whimper wants to escape my lips.
I can’t look away though.
The red is slowly flowing out of the man’s neck. His eyes are wide, and I know he won’t be moving for long.
This is what it looks like for a soul to leave a man’s body.
It’s painful and filthy and disgusting.
It’s intoxicating.
My mouth parts and I lick my lips, and the copper in the air brushes against the back of my throat.
“Aren’t you going to help him?” a rich, masculine voice inquires from right behind me.
I spin around to face the source of it, and my eyes widen as I see the man who appeared from the dark. His dark brown hair is combed back like all the New Bristol businessmen. He’s dressed neatly, in a black button-down shirt and a nice pair of trousers.
I wonder if I’m seeing the Devil.
He’s too handsome, too otherworldly, to be a mere mortal.
