Unnatural Instinct: Fallen

6.

You turn with a start at the sound of the door closing shut. Rushing over, you try the handle but it's locked. You pull and tug against it but the door is so strong and heavy it doesn't even budge in its frame. You release it with a grunt. Not that you have much incentive to leave the room anyway. Where are you going to go? Back outside into hell?

Into hell.

You grip onto yourself. 'Jesus.'

As you glance around the room, you wonder how on Earth something as beautiful as this could be possible in the middle of hell. As you look, your eyes fall upon the bed and you give a little cry at what looks like clothing folded in a neat pile at the bottom of the mattress. Hurrying over, you unravel it and hold it up. It's something resembling a slip; a white satin nightie. It's a far cry from what you would usually wear but much better than nothing at all. You slip it on. There's no underwear, however, and the material clings uncomfortably between your legs.

From there, you investigate your room. The first thing you notice is that there's no window—which you're grateful for; the last thing you want is to enjoy the 'amazing' view.

'Jesus,' you repeat to yourself, raking your hand through your hair. You're in hell. An angel (or demon) stole you from the street and took you into hell. And what was all that on the altar? What did he find? You try not to think about it. The thought of him touching you down there fills you with chills.

You circle the room, looking through drawers and cupboards, even under the rugs. There's a little annexe behind a curtain that holds a toilet and sink. It's a desperate, pointless search. You don't know what you're looking for: an escape, somewhere to hide, a key to the door, a weapon to defend yourself with, an answer to all that's happening to you. It doesn't matter. You come up with nothing.

Just as you sit down on the edge of the bed with your head in your hands, you stiffen, then turn at a noise to your left. Was that a voice? You hold your breath as you listen, frustrated by the loud thud of your own heartbeat. The sound is muffled, like it's coming from beyond the wall. The hair on your arms prickles. It is a voice, and it's moaning.

'He-hello?' you croak.

No answer.

You get up. The flames of the candles on the floor waver as you walk past. The rugs are soft beneath your feet. Unlike the suffocating heat of the outside, the room is somehow cool and comfortable.

You stand before a tapestry depicting a knight mounted on a great white horse. He almost seems to stare straight at you through his visor. Behind him a storm is rolling in. You look more closely, and quickly discover that it's not streaks of white cloud you see amid the black, but wings. Angel wings. Those are angels flying high in the sky.

At the sound of a cry you step back with a start. 'Hello?' you try again.

'Hello?' returns a strained, masculine voice.

You suck in a breath. 'Are you all right?'

'I'm hurt.'

You look up at the tapestry. The voice is definitely coming from behind it. Tentatively, you push it aside to reveal an old door. A very old door. The wood is rotting and is shrinking away from the wall. Bright light beams around the frame. You try to peer through a gap near the lock but see nothing. You try the handle but it's locked, of course. You press your ear to the wood. Whoever is behind it is groaning.

'I want to help you but the door is locked,' you say quietly.

He groans again.

You pull back, letting the tapestry fall back into place. 'I'll-I'll try and find a way.'

You look around desperately but you've already searched the room and found nothing. You could try and pick the lock, you suppose. You've never done it before but you once read the mechanics of it on the internet, and it looks easy enough from what you've seen on television. The thought almost makes you laugh. It always looks easy on television.

Still, what have you go to lose?

Reaching up, you pull two pins from your hair. Hurrying back over, you shove the tapestry aside and drop to your knees. The lock is old and worn and you have to jiggle the two pins in to push through the rust. You try for several minutes, becoming more and more desperate as the man in the next room continues to groan. Finally, you hear a click. Your heart leaps. Standing, you turn the handle. It works but when you push at the door it jams. You push and push with no result, until, finally, more out of frustration than purpose, you kick it hard with your bare foot.

To your astonishment it flings open, slamming against the opposite wall. You pause, glancing over your shoulder, hoping no one heard you. You're breathing heavily, both out of triumph and fear, wondering if this is such a good idea and that maybe you should have just left well alone. You should be thinking of your own safety more than anyone else's.

The room is not so rich as yours. Not even close. It's a cell, filthy and uncomfortable. It's filled with light, however, as brightly as yours, but it's not coming from the flickering flames of hundreds of candles. Oh no. This light is very different.

You stand frozen in the doorway, unable to believe your eyes, unable to move except to clutch at your throat. Then your knees buckle and you're forced to grip onto the wall to keep your balance.

Lying in a little cot in the centre of the room is, without a doubt, an angel. It's everything anyone thinks of when they picture one in their mind: white-feathered wings, porcelain skin, golden hair. Then there's the light. It seems to pour from his body.

He's lying on his belly, with his head turned away. His glorious wings are resting limply against his back and hang over the sides of his cot where they drape along the filthy floor. They're torn and bloodied, enough so that you can see the bare skin of his back beneath. Dozens of blood-tipped feathers litter the cell. Your heart lurches. Inexplicably, tears swell in your throat. Something so wondrous shouldn't be like this.

'What's happened to you?' you whisper.

As he turns his golden head, the air catches in your throat. Like the rest of him, his face is glorious. His lips are firm and pink, his jaw square, his cheekbones unnaturally high. His golden eyebrows are perfect straight lines, sitting low over a pair of eyes so mesmerising you can't look away. They're such a clear blue it's almost as though you can see straight through them, like pools of water.

You make an embarrassing sound, somewhere between a 'gah' and a 'briiiip'. You think you were trying to ask how you can help him but you're not really sure. You're not really sure of anything anymore.

With a gasp, you slump to your knees. You grip onto yourself as you start to tremble violently. It seems the astonishing reality of your situation is finally catching up with you: you're terrifying kidnap, those dreadful winged men, what they did to you on the altar, your entrance into hell.

Hell.

And now this angel. This wondrous, glorious, astonishing, impossible angel.

Vomit surges in your throat but you manage to swallow it back down. Tears blur your eyes and you hang your head, unable to look at him, unwilling to accept any of this.

'Do not fear, for God is with you,' he says.

You look up. He's watching you with those magnificent blue eyes, his lips pulled back in a kindly smile. You swallow and gasp, needing to say something but unable to, your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth. Finally, you manage a croak. 'Where am I?'

'You're in the home of the dark one.'

'The-the dark one?'

'He has many names: Satan, Lucifer, Beelzebub, the Fallen One ...'

'The Devil,' you finish with a shudder.