Blink {Featured}

Chapter Twelve

Time passed but John could not measure it. He lapsed between moments of sanity, counting seconds and minutes with his breaths, and moments of crazed terror or rage, shouting into the darkness, shaking his fist at fate and God and Death. And the darkness did not diminish; Death did not come back, not for what felt like bloody years. Fuck, it pissed him off and wore him down. If only he could Blink his way out of this one, but it wasn't possible, not if he couldn't even see his own hands. And the worst?

The wall opposite to him played a scene, again and again and again. It was torture: the soldier and the police, the nasty old woman and then the car speeding away with the little brown-haired girl. He always found himself looking at the car and the girl. At first he screamed to try to stop her, he banged his fists and even took a running jump into the wall, but it wouldn't stop. It just played, looped, and played again.

Sleep eluded him. Fuck, if only he could close his eyes to this dark hole of nothing and escape into dreams, maybe sanity would return. If only he could hear Mam's voice, touch Charlie's hands...or know they were okay. Death's words rang in his head like bells, and he heard Death's hissing whisper from somewhere behind him over and over, a haunting.

'Tigeerrr...' Goose bumps spread over his arms and a numb terror sank deeper into his bones--wait, no. He had no bones here, but it sure as fuck felt like the horror sank into his bones. What was Death doing to his little sister? John bit at his thumbnail and spat bits of it out somewhere in the murk.

At last the scenes stopped playing and darkness smothered him again, but maybe it was better this way, better not seeing the girl, the crazy old lady, and that car speeding into the horizon. Sweat trickled down his back and his shirt stuck to it. The cups of his eyeballs ached, as if the darkness pushed against them.

#

Was that grey blooming on the wall? He touched the wall beside him gingerly with the tips of his fingers, but he could still see nothing. Must have been his imagination again. Nausea and fear roiled in his stomach, and even though he'd seen the dark room before Death had left, his mind conjured images of twisted faces, demons and devils, snakes and fanged creatures. Trembles shook his arms and shoulders.

'No, it's not real,' he whispered and clutched his head with both hands, tucking his chin to his chest and rocking back and forth. Just in his head, that was all. Just in his head. John rocked on his heels, his knees covering his ears. Soon the darkness would go away. He bit his lip, rocking, rocking. Soon he would see his family again. Things were going to be okay. Things were going to be fine...

#

Nothingness had saturated John. Thinking of nothing, feeling nothing, being nothing. In fact, he couldn't feel the tips of his fingers, and when he swung his arms...Did he even have arms anymore? A curious thing happened next; something not black appeared right next to John. Suddenly he felt breath rushing faster and faster in and out of his nose, and his heart thumped louder. Death? Was Death coming back? Holy shit, he'd never in his life thought seeing Death could make him this happy.

With all the willpower he could muster, he pushed up against the wall as if he could feel his body. As if he could see his body, or where the hell he was. Yes, it was light, grey light grey from a spot just beyond his fingertips--and he could bloody see his fingertips. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he held his hand before his face with a huge smile and kissed each finger, tasting salty tears.

'God, thank you,' he muttered between joyous sobs. A hooded man dropped from the wall, plopped on the floor on his ass, got up, and dusted himself down.

'Death?'

'No, son,' the man said--it was an older man, 'cause his voice warbled like Dad's voice always had. 'I am Michael.'