Tales of the Damned: Glimpses

GLIMPSES
A prologue

[1]

She stood in the shadows of a stout mango tree, listening to the constant spatter of raindrops on the rough asphalt. It sounded almost musical, like the sound of a thousand tiny drums rising to a crescendo.

She loved the rain. She welcomed the dense, black clouds that blotted out the sun and covered the sky, blanketing the earth in a baleful gray mist. She reveled in the gloom that descended over the city, as it gave her a sense of freedom that could only be hers once night began to fall.

It was not yet night. It was, in fact, early afternoon, though time was hard to tell on such a dark stormy day. It had been raining since that morning, and the streets were empty of people. A few taxis sped by; drivers braving the hostile downpour, hoping to catch some stranded passenger. Even the jeepney drivers surrendered, it seemed, for only a handful were running their usual routes.

She stood in the shadows, waiting until the street was deserted. She didn't have to wait long. Seeing no single soul in sight, she stepped out into the rain, lifting her pale face up as if to catch every raindrop.

She savored each little drop, feeling the wetness soak through her dress. She felt the cold seep into her very bones.

It was strangely cleansing, and it troubled her.

She was Amara, a Tormentor, a demon of pain. She fed on human anguish and preyed on lost, hapless mortals, driving them over the edge until they take their own lives and damn their souls to eternity in Hell. Born of darkness, her kind did not want cleansing.

So why was she feeling otherwise?

[2]

He watched her as she stood in the rain, wondering faintly if she had felt his presence. It didn't seem likely, though. She was oblivious to anything but the rain. She was lost in it, entranced almost, and…

He paused. She was enjoying the sensation, he realized suddenly.

His eyes narrowed. No demon ever took time to enjoy anything unless it involved pain, death, or absolute evil. Especially not Tormentors, who simply lived on pain.

Tormentors do not stand around in the rain doing nothing.

Amara. He said her name softly under his breath, knowing full well he was acting rather foolishly — for an angel.

He generally stayed away from demons unless they were interfering with his tasks. He wasn't a warrior angel, after all. But Amara intrigued him. She was like no other demon he'd ever met. There was something inside Amara that yearned for the Light, that was of the Light. And he didn't think she knew.

It was a hidden part of her, hidden even from herself. But he could see it. He could see any trace of the Light in anyone and anything. This was the first time that he saw it in a demon.

He recalled their first meeting thoughtfully. It was a fateful night that he was not likely to forget, ever.

Demons seethed with the shadows of the Dark, while angels burned with the Light. That was how it was supposed to be.

For once in his long life, Izurfiel was faced with a serious paradox. What was Amara?

[3]

- Don't be sad, Clara… -

There it was again. That strange little child's voice echoing and re-echoing inside her head.

It haunted her dreams quite frequently of late.

- Don't be sad anymore… -

It always said the same thing, over and over.

She'd hated having these dreams. She thought she had put them behind her, that they weren't ever going to bother her again. Obviously, she'd been wrong.

She'd had other dreams before, years ago, and she had desperately buried them in the past. She had hated them, because she knew they weren't just dreams.

They were visions. Glimpses of things past and things yet to come.

Others would call it a gift, but to her it had been a curse. It was like trying to solve impossible cryptograms, or guessing badly played clues at a game of Charades.

She would always end up frustrated, always figured it out too late, and it left her too utterly helpless to do anything about it.

Just like when her mother died. She'd had the dreams, but they were so cryptic, she only realized what they meant when she had stood staring at her mother's lifeless body.

That had been the last straw. With all her willpower, she had refused to have the dreams again, had pushed them away as soon as they came. She would compel herself to stay awake, and forcibly wake herself up if she fell asleep. Her life became a living nightmare until, one day, the dreams stopped.

Now they were back.

But this time, Clara reacted differently. She decided that she wouldn't try to stop them. This time, she was going to listen, and pay attention. She would try to make sense of the dreams, because they might just be her salvation.

The voice spoke again.

- Look. They fight over you. -

And then she was sitting on the bed, staring at two beings who faced each other before her. One was a strangely beautiful woman, with long hair of the deepest black, like a clear night that had suddenly become devoid of moon and stars. Her dress was of the same color, long and flowing, reaching all the way down to cover her feet. It shimmered about her, which was eerie because there was no breeze at all. The tips of her long hair swirled into shadows that seemed to dance about her. But it was her eyes that caught Clara's breath. They were red; a deep, blazing red.

The man who faced her was breath-taking in his loveliness. His hair was a rich golden brown, parted at the right, the front ends falling over his left eye. He wore a white tunic belted at the waist with what looked like gold cord, and white breeches that ended into old-fashioned sandals. He was surrounded with light, a light so calm and peaceful that Clara felt herself wanting to reach out and be part of it.

But the sight was just too strange to behold, all she could do was simply gape at them.

- Darkness and Light, the voice continued. Good and Evil. -

Clara frowned. Good and evil, it said. An angel and a demon? Fighting. Over her? With a sigh, Clara felt the familiar confusion engulf her.

Suddenly, the voice turned ominous.

- Who decides what is good, and what is evil? -


[END OF GLIMPSES]