Fingers

**Ethereal** · 04-03-2010 03:20 PM

Fingers

The water felt like fire. It burned, icy flames that licked at his throat. He thrashed against its weight, fighting for air, fighting for the surface, fighting against the iron grip that held him down. The white, molten pain that seared in his head forced him up and onwards, forced him to kick and tear and bite against the impossible, to resist. To endure.

But the white light was fading. The edges of his vision were replaced with heavy black clouds, a darkness so heavy that it sinks into your soul, robs your heart of its purpose, your spirit of hope. His struggles were growing weaker. The water pressed harder, rushing into his lungs, and he twisted in back in agony as the riverbed dug deep into his spine.

And then the weight ceased, the grip wrenched upward and he tasted air. Cruel, bitter, real air. He didn’t want to breath. It was hell to breath. But there was something the water had failed to douse; the fire in his eyes, and so he forced himself to breath and this time it felt like iron, like his core had hardened and would stretch no more.

He forced his eyes open and stared into the face of the devil. The eyes that stared back at him were empty, devoid of life, but held a power that made men quake. And he, shaking, soaked and beaten, was definitely quaking. He knew that if not for the vice-grip with which his tormentor held him, he would sink back into the freezing depths of the river.

“Just call me angel,” the devil spoke with a sweet, golden voice.

“Go to hell,” he spat back.

Now the devil’s voice was like venom. “Why not take you with me!” he hissed, grabbing the man’s wrist and twisting. He fell to the ground with a scream of pain, squinting through the water that dripped from his eyes at his sun-silhouetted nemesis.

The devil’s hand vanished into his dark mesh of clothes. With a hiss that echoed of agony, a blade slid out from its hidden sheath and was pressed into the man’s open palm.

He stared at the dagger in horror, despair and helplessness. It would be over soon, a quick slice and down, down into the cavernous depths that never ended, where souls screamed in unified agony, the depraved writhed in agony and above it all, this stalker of the nightly world sat and watched.
One small slice and his soul was forfeit. He opened his lips for one last prayer, his ragged breath ringing loud in his ears.

And then he paused.

He stared at his hands again, but this time not in fear, but in confusion. And then defiance. And finally, delicately, daringly, in hope.

His eyes flicked upwards to stare unflinchingly once more into the eyes of hell. And then he dared.

“I have six fingers,” he whispered.

The devil stared on, uncomprehending at first, and then a shadow of fear flashed across his face.

He rose to his feet, trembling.

“I have six fingers,” he repeated, and took a faltering step forwards. And then another step, his voice rising in volume and spirit with each one.

“I have six fingers!” He was roaring now, baring his fear and his loss to the skies.

He had six fingers. The world was at his command.

And then his alarm went off again, it’s snooze function springing back into life as it chimed the tune “Morning Angel” into the dimly lit room. It was 5:50AM, school was just a few hours away, and – he squinted at his hand, then sighed – he only had five fingers.