Page 68 of Fallen: Darkness Ascending, Vol.1

NHIALII

G laring eyes submerged in viscous venom and hatred sear into me, instantly rendering me frozen in place.

They’re cavernous and murky, nearly identical to stagnant water left to fester.

I feel both physically and mentally pinned down under the weight of his primal hold.

It’s suffocating and incites a raw image of him burrowing into my tissue and bones.

Horrifying flashes of him diving elbow deep into my dying carcass surge behind my eyes.

I bite back the burning tears threatening to spill again.

His fixated eyes are relentless, crawling over my skin like a thousand fire ants, feasting on my vulnerable flesh.

In the split-second it takes to see his appearance physically, a canvas of grotesque deterioration reveals itself from behind the facade.

Dark, dried blood coats his skin and shirt, a patchwork of old and fresh, barely distinguishable from the grime clinging to his face.

Gooey bits of bloody flesh coil between unruly, matted sections of his beard.

The metallic scent permeates the innermost passages of my airway, sending acidic bile migrating up my throat.

I want to scream when I notice a warm, sticky sheen on the dangling putrid tissue.

A few slivers of foliage stick out of his hair like a sinister ornament.

Behind the malicious grin, I can see his front teeth are slightly crooked, one juts out slightly too far.

It takes all of my willpower not to scream in his face. I can’t feed him his next dose. You’re so brave, Nhialii. I remind myself. You’ve survived before; you can do it again.

I shut my eyes for a heartbeat: one second, only one.

A slow inhale, shallow and measured through my nose, counting to four.

One. He hasn’t moved.

Two. My body is still mine.

Three. I sink my teeth into my tongue to stop it from trembling.

Four. I exhale gently, silent and controlled.

The tears burning the corners of my eyes recede slightly.

I curl my fingers into fists at my sides, anchoring myself in the sting of my nails pressing into my palms. I picture my breath as a thread, a lifeline, pulling me out of this.

I imagine a barrier rising between his chaos and my core, small and fluttering, but mine.

Untouchable.

My shoulders lowered, no longer locked at my ears. I don’t allow the terror to unravel me. I let it twist. Contained. Hidden. A weapon, not a weakness.

While maintaining the unbearable weight of eye contact, I feel the sharp edge of the shattered bowl next to my foot.

If I can reach a big enough shard without being noticed, I might be able to shift the odds; he just can’t figure out my plan.

Keeping my expression carefully neutral, I slowly inch my toes forward, curling around the largest piece I can discreetly find.

Seconds tick by, each one a new scream forming in my chest. Then, without warning, deafening sirens erupt outside, reverberating off the walls of my tiny kitchen. This is it—I’m so close to freedom.

The sounds startle him. His head jerks away from mine, and his grip slackens slightly.

A small window of opportunity opens; I can’t mess this up.

Seizing my chance, I hook the shard with my foot, snatch it up, and twist my body to jam the spiked end into his abdomen.

I wince as the jagged edge slices into my freshly burned hand, but I don’t pull back.

Heated crimson pours from the wound and coats me instantly, staining my exposed skin.

As gaping as his wound is, I know one jab to the gut won’t be enough to take him down.

I refuse to allow my pain to distract me; I must keep fighting.

With a feral cry, I thrust the shard deeper, feeling muscle and resistance give beneath my palm.

His breath catches in a ragged gasp, hot and sharp upon my cheek.

He snarls, more animal than man. My vision blurs with tears and sweat, my burned skin screaming from every motion. I want him to feel it.

Every inch. Every second.

I angle the shard and drag it sideways, splitting the flesh wider.

He howls, a twisted, gurgling sound, and staggers backward, allowing me to break free from his hold.

His arms flail out to catch me, but I’m already moving, desperate for safety.

Half-dried soup and blood mingle on the floor below, blending to form an oil painting nightmare.

My bare feet slide on the slick surface, and I crash shoulder-first into the cabinets, pain blooming instantly.

The impact jolts my hand, and my make-shift weapon falls from my grasp, vanishing in the shadows.

He comes at me again, only this time, he is wounded and furious. I don’t have time to think, I react .

A mighty wail roars from my throat, not out of fear, only rage.

I slam my entire body into him, leading with my forearms. Both of my hands are raw, burning, and shaking, barely holding it together.

Adrenaline charges every fiber in my body, amping up for my next attack.

I rake my nails down whatever I can reach—his cheek, abdomen, any exposed skin I can shred.

I strike gold when one hand catches the side of his throat, peeling away slivers of flesh harshly. Satisfaction grows on my face.

He snarls like a rabid beast. “You’re going to regret that,” he spits.

There will be no begging for my life. I will not be buried tonight. I will not be another name whispered in grief and tucked into an evidence box.

I try to dart away, but I’m not fast enough.

I hesitated too long. His hand snaps out and snags my arm mid-step.

The iron vice grip I experienced earlier clamps down, wrenching me off balance.

My body contorts midair, gravity swallowing me whole.

I slam onto the floor, the front of my ribs hitting first, then the side of my skull cracks against cold, wet tile.

The air knocks out of me on impact; my lungs seize, and I’m left gasping for breath.

A macabre crack resounds in my chest. Agony erupts inside my ribcage, immediate and unrelenting.

Blinding white light steals my vision, disorienting me.

My blood-soaked hands search uselessly for the glass shard, only it’s not there, it’s well beyond reach. However, my attacker remains.

Fighting to crawl away, his grip tightens around my ankle, yanking me back to him.

I kick, thrash, and punch with my remaining strength, only it’s futile.

He drags me toward him as if I weigh nothing, pulling me under the darkness of his shadow.

My fingers claw the floor, nails severing from the cuticle, searching for anything to anchor me.

There’s nothing.

No One .

No escape.

He may have the upper hand, but I will not let him take the rest of my life without a fight.