Flirting with Death
Prologue

Every night it was the same thing.

A midnight moon hung in view of the dusty window, spilling soft beams of light over the dark sheets, illuminating pale skin. He rose alone from his bed, cold night chills accompanying the beads of sweat now rolling down his body. One step and he fell forward in swift motion, a loud thud resounding throughout the room as his knees hit the hard wooden floor.

He gasped and coughed, his lungs aching for air as he struggled to regain his composure. It felt to him as if the walls by which he was surrounded were closing in, suffocating, threatening to choke the very life from him. Paranoia had exhausted him to no end, and the terrifying thing was that his fear was a fear born of his own mind, a devilish dream that he could not seem to separate from his consciousness.

With each fit the pain became worse, and no matter how he tried, he was unable to relieve it.

The hallways echoed with the pounding of his bare feet against the old and rotting wood. The sound drummed out a dull, lifeless, monotone beat from one end of the mansion to the other. It echoed throughout the staircase and followed him into yet another dusty room. He threw himself onto the stone hearth, and a new passageway was revealed.

His crudely tipped fingers groped out in the darkness, reaching out to the small box of matches that he kept sitting on the closest chair, atop the thick stack of old newspapers, readily rolled into small bundles. He had learned to keep both the papers and the matches nearby for just these occassions, after a nasty fall had caused him to lose all control, but he could barely bring his trembling hands to light one of the brittle matchsticks, even in the small amount of light that filtered through the doorway.

After several unsuccessful attempts, he finally managed to spark one smoky flame to life, and he nursed the flickering light until he had set one of the bundles ablaze. Once he entered the basement entrance, he used the paper to light the torch that was placed in a crevice in the stone wall. Down he travelled, his descent down the stairwell trailing drips of hot blood behind him.

And the stairs, oh, the stairs! His darkened, huddled form awaited the end, but the downward spiral seemed to stretch on for an eternity. He idly wondered as he mindlessly travelled the familiar steps exactly how long his suffering would last. He couldn't help but think, and bitterly, that his journey down to the underground lair was all too symbolic of his life as of late.

There were few steps to close the gap between himself and the heavy door that separated him from sweet release. He fell onto the hard wood, and once inside, he mounted his torch on the wall. He turned to face the dismal scene before him, hands clutching at his shoulders.

With the last bit of will he could muster, he threw the lid from his place of rest, and it slid quickly from its position to crash loudly on the stone floor. The firelight on the wall shone dimly behind him, shedding just enough light to project his shadow on the wall as he felt the change beginning to take effect. He turned away, and fell to the floor as his body began to shift form, the pain almost too much for him to bear.

There, on the floor, the glowing light flickered over the shining wood of his sepulchre, mocking him as did his shadow. He forced himself from the floor, unwilling to behold his reflection, lest he go mad and lose himself before the transformation was complete. He lifted his leg over the end of the sarcophagus and was on his knees in mere seconds, fierce agony ripping through the flesh of his back.

He resisted the urge to fall face-forward; he hitched his breath and held tightly to the head of the coffin, claw and hand both leaving impressions in the woodwork. He leaned forward, back arched, as bones tore through skin, tendons were stretched and tugged, threatening to rip him apart at the seams, and his breath escaped him in a loud cry that turned quickly to a shattering roar. His claws came up to grasp at his own shoulders, both piercing his flesh and spilling his blood.

Falling finally, he succumbed to satin lining and velvet cushions, neither of which provided him any comfort. Like the piles of bones surrounding him, he was resigned to his fate, and he could do nothing but remain buried underground, perhaps infinitely. Curled into himself, he could only wait for morning, as he could not find rest under the stars.

He lay there only half a man, his tail hanging from the edge of the box, his wings folded awkwardly behind him, and his clawed limbs restless in consuming his space. His body was caked with blood, and the tears stung bitterly, even worse than the gashes in his back or the pain that shot down his spine.

His body began to writhe, though his transformation was as far complete as it would be that night. How he hated being such a monster. And that hour reminded him that he was only half a man and half a demon, as he carried the appearance of a man during the day, and shouldered the emotions of a man when the sun had gone down.

His throat was tender from screaming, and he shut his eyes to block out the vision of his own twisted arms lying in front of his face. No one else could possibly know the terrors which he suffered. He truly was a madman's piece of work.

He would undergo a sort of rigor mortis in the morning; the night had taken everything out of him. He would simply lie there, knowing that he was in his place.