An Angel's awakening

The rain came first — soft, almost kind, before it turned cruel. It drummed against the roof, slow and steady, like a warning I didn’t yet understand. The old house groaned around me. I sat on the floor with my back to the wall, knees pressed to my chest, and tried not to breathe too loud. The air stunk of whiskey and fear. The man I call father is screaming angrily. His booming voice vibrating off the walls. My anxiety shooting through the roof as my body trembles. My mother’s voice broke through the noise — sharp, pleading for him to calm down, that he wasn’t thinking straight. “That devil girl will KILL US ALL! She can’t live Diane and you know it!” He screamed “Please, my love, she is only a child! We can teach her. We can show her how to control it! You will not hurt our daughter!” My mother’s trembled voice yelled back. “That THING is not my daughter! She’s a monster! And I will not stand by and wait for inevitable death.” He seethed. I could hear foot steps coming towards me. “ARIA! Where are you? Come out now!” “NO!” My mother screamed and a loud thud was heard on the other side of the wall. Glass shattered. A scream tore through the walls, and something inside me snapped with it. I felt anger and fear and my skin started to burn. I tried to scream out but nothing came. The room tilted, the floor buckled. My heartbeat became something else — a drum, a roar, a beast clawing its way out from inside my chest. I could feel my gums tingle and I could taste blood on my tongue. My hands ached and my spine tensed and taught. My head throbbed, feeling like it was being cracked open. I tried to call for her. I think I did. But the sound that came out wasn’t human. Something between a growl and a roar I think. My father burst through the door and I can smell blood on him. White hot anger pulsed through my veins and my head snapped towards him with a sickening crack. The air turned thick with the scent of iron and rain. Shadows moved where no one stood. Everything blurred — a rush of sound and red and pain. Then silence. When I opened my eyes, the floor was gone. I was on my knees in the forest, mud and blood clinging to my hands, the moon staring down like a witness. My breath came ragged and raw, and the night hummed in rhythm with my heart. I didn’t realize I was crying until I tasted salt mixed with copper. Fresh mud and leaves littered my hair, making my once bright red hair, now a dingy brown. Scratches, both big and small, covered my whole body, the fresh rain pouring down on me cleaned the cuts but stung at the same time. Somewhere behind me, something broken whispered my name. Calling me back to the house. Or maybe it was just the wind. I wanted to look back, but I didn’t. The forest breathed in, and so did I — one rhythm, one pulse. The fear didn’t rise this time. It sank, heavy and final, somewhere deep inside me. I ran. I ran as fast as my legs could carry me. My lungs burned, begging for air. My legs ached something fierce, pleading with me to stop. The wind carried my name as a scream, the guilt completely consuming my soul. And that’s when I understood: Whatever had happened in that house… I couldn’t go back. --- I woke with a gasp, choking on the air. My throat burned, and the taste of rain still clung to the back of my tongue — metallic, sharp. For a few disoriented seconds, I couldn’t tell if I was still there, still kneeling in the forest with the moon glaring down on me. My hair clung to my skin with sweat, my breath coming in short pants. My sheets were tangled, damp with sweat. My fingers trembled as I looked at them — half expecting to see mud or blood, like before. But there was nothing. Just pale skin and the faint tremor of something that wouldn’t stop. The room was quiet. Too quiet. Even the wind outside seemed to hold its breath. I pressed a hand to my chest. My heart wasn’t just racing — it was angry, pounding against my ribs like it wanted out. I told myself it was just another dream, the same one that never really ends. But deep down, I knew better. Every time I close my eyes, I see it — the rain, the blood, the forest. Every time, I wake up certain that something is still out there. Or worse… still inside me. The clock on the nightstand glowed 3:17 a.m. The witching hour. I pushed the blanket away and sat up, breath fogging in the chill. The cabin was small, a box of shadows and silence, but it was all I could afford. All I deserved. It was located in the densest forest I could find. With what little money I had, I built it from scratch. I gathered wild animals from around the wilderness. I did a little local trading in the town 200 miles from me. The checks were always mailed to an abandoned house on the highway. I didn’t trust myself around anyone, so I chose complete solitude. Through the window, the world outside was a blur of fog and trees. The forest pressed close, too close, as if it wanted to crawl inside. Mist coiled around the pines, pale as bone, and for a heartbeat, I swore I saw movement — something tall, slow, deliberate, standing just beyond the line of light. Not quite menacing, but curious almost, I blinked. Gone. The silence settled thick around me, heavy enough to feel alive. I sat there for a while, staring out at the tree line, waiting for movement that never came. The longer I looked, the more the forest seemed to breathe — slow, deliberate, patient. Eventually, my eyes started to burn and everything was blurring. I told myself to go back to bed. To stop feeding the nightmare. But the stillness gnawed at me, whispering the same way it did when I was a child hiding under the kitchen table, waiting for the next crash, the next mistake that would make everything break again. Then came the sound — soft, deliberate. A footstep on wet earth and a soft crack of a stick deep in the forest. The echo of the crack bounced off the dense pines. My body moved before my mind caught up. Sweater. Door. The cold sting of air. When I stepped outside, the world was drenched in silver mist. The air smelled of rain and pine and something wilder beneath it — something warm and inviting. A slight breeze filtered through the leaves. “Hello?” My voice cracked, swallowed by the fog. No answer. Just the wind shifting through the branches. And I caught a faint whiff of something new and felt goose bumps spread across my skin. I stepped out onto the porch, boards slick beneath my feet. The forest waited, a dark mouth open before me. Then I saw it — far beyond the mist, between the trees. Two faint points of light. Blue orbs stare back at me. Watching. Waiting. “Who are you?” I yelled into the dark. My voice failed me and trembled. “Leave me alone! I don’t want to hurt you!” They weren’t the reflection of an animal’s eyes. They were too still. Too knowing. The world inside me moved again — slow and deep, like a tide turning beneath my ribs. My fear didn’t rise this time. It sank, spreading warmth through the cold that had clung to me for years. The eyes held me. Unblinking. Patient. And for the first time, I didn’t want to run away, but towards whatever this light was. A shiver rippled through me. My skin prickled, alive with the pulse of something wild beneath it — something that recognized the call in those glowing blues. My heartbeat changed. Slowed. Deepened. My bones began to burn and ache and my skin felt like fire. No — not again. Not here. But the forest pulled harder, the way the tide pulls the shore. The warmth in my chest spread outward, racing through my veins, filling me until I thought I’d burst. The world tilted, the colors of all the trees and stars bleeding together — silver, blue, red. I reached for the railing, but my fingers no longer felt like mine. My movements didn’t fell like my own. Like I’m watching through a screen. The air shimmered. My knees buckled and my head drummed again. I could feel my heart beating against my chest. And just before the dark took me, I heard it — a low sound, deep and rough, somewhere between a growl and a gasp. Then everything fell away.