Widening a pair of freshly rested eyes, his gaze met the brilliance of a new day. A gentle breeze brushed past his face, rousing him from a dream he never knew he would arouse from.

  Blinking confusedly, Azrael rolled to his side, pushing his body upright against a field of golden reeds. Fluttering with a wayward breeze, he realised he was in a land he hadn’t ever tread before, basking in the warmth of a sun he had long forgotten. The scent of wild holy basils in full bloom was interspersed at odd intervals, paired with the rustle of prickling leaves by his ankles.

  Both of them?

  He rose to his feet, taking note of his intact limbs. He nearly fell over against the crunch of wet soil, expecting to limp his way over the countryside with half as many limbs.

  “Was I always this whole?” He scratched his head, taken aback.

  Wading his way through the field, he took in a delish breath, savouring the freshness, absorbing the cultivated wilderness with his touch. The brush of subtle bristles from the rough prickly caresses of the reeds, guided him out the field and to the edge of asphalt. He’d left the countryside quicker than he had expected, the shifting scenery dizzying his addled mind.

  “Where am I?” he asked, his voice lingering about the wilderness. Cupping a hand over his brow, he peered left and then right. He sought a break in the stretch of reeds and asphalt, extending in both directions. “Where do I go from here?”

  Wetting a finger, he held his hand up in the air. He awaited a light breeze. In the span of several blinks, a stray gust blew by.

  Heaving a sigh, he turned his back to the sun, in the sweltering afternoon. He began his journey, marching to the rhythm strung along by a choir of cicadas. Their melody was almost meditative to the thump of his feet, walking onwards. Trickles of sweat ran down his neck, kneading their way over his spine. It was a warmth he had forgotten. The proof living beings carried every day.

  He used to hate the stickiness that came by, every summer, with the sun at the zenith of its glare. The heat bore down on his body, heavier than most people, leaving his skin perpetually slick, prickling with clammy ickiness.

  But right now, it was different. He welcomed summer, in any shape or form. He yearned for the rays to wrap around him, opening his pores to a warmer world, clutching him in a tender embrace.

  It was by some cruel whim of fate he had been born under the wrong stars but in that moment, warmth and time were luxuries he had been awarded, especially one bereft of torment.

  “Did I lose myself in thought, or am I lost in serenity?”

  Azrael’s brief silence was interrupted by the screech of rubber coming to a skidding halt against the asphalt beside him. With a reluctant heave, he pried his gaze free from the horizon.

  “Need a ride?” offered the driver of a rundown truck. With the straw hat and a lone reed stuck between his lips, he fit the look of a farmer. But his skin was feathery fluff, following the redhead with a pair of beads for eyes, dangling a set of shrivelled wattles beneath his chin.

  Taking a step back, the redhead raised an eyebrow, slapping himself awake. “Where’re you headed?”

  “Strange one, aren’t ya?” said the driver, mirroring Azrael’s dubious gaze. “Gotta drop my wares at the city o’er yonder. If ya don’t mind a place in the back, feel free ta pop in. I doubt ya’ll run inta ‘nother ride around ‘ere. So, what’s it gonna be?”

  Shrugging, the redhead realised he didn’t have much of a choice. Perhaps it’s a stroke of good fortune. Might as well hitch a ride till wherever.

  He looked back at the field behind him. Its gentle caressing and languid nature distanced itself from the hurt he’d endured. An alluring offer to give in to. To be free. To lie there till the end came to be. Despite all the shades interspersed between the stalks, there was a nagging notion he couldn’t shake off.

  There would be nothing but greyness.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Hauling himself onto the back of the truck, he made space amongst the rough stacks of bundled plastic, covered by tarp. Eyeing his company for the trip, he had realised the stacks looked familiar. But a different version of them. Tipping his head in doubt, he rubbed his chin.

  In that moment, it hit him like lightning, blitzing an instantaneous flashback, unveiling a mountain of corpses. It was a vague memory he wasn’t even sure was his own. The scent peeling off the rusting metal, off the truck’s rear, was a tad bit better than the whiff of rotting dead and blood, searing his nares, every day.

  Better than the scent of his own rot.

  Reflexively, he clutched the sides of his head, wracked by a raging headache, nearly tipping him over the edge.

  “Ya don’t look sa great,” said the driver. “Help yaself ta some grub.” Through a narrow gap past the driver’s seat, he handed Azrael a sandwich, revving the engine back to life.

  “Thanks,” he replied, graciously accepting the food. He broke into a cold sweat, peeling the wrapping off the generous meal. Right then, a flood of memories rushed into his consciousness. Breathing in a mouthful of the crusty roll, his mind was submerged under a tide of the recent past, from the moment he had been devoured by Requiem.

  A raven cawed overhead, whistling past the horizon, dropping a lone feather that settled beside Azrael. The plume reflected his pale face against the radiant afternoon sun.

  Liquid burgundy trickled down a leathery extension of darkness. The drops pitter-pattered, absconding the dark wing and revealing a touch of colour, shaping a crimson haired male into existence.

  Weak in the knees, he collapsed, gasping and quaking. The redhead took in ragged rasps for breath, struggling on all fours.

  “What happened?” asked the redhead, raising an eyebrow. Stumbling to his knees, he stared at the puddle of blood pooling before him. “Why… why does he look like that?”

  Gritting his teeth, he smouldered over, grabbing the upper half of Mol’okh’s severed body. A serene expression of relentless mirth was smeared across his tormentor’s lifeless visage.

  “After all that, after all the people you brutalised and destroyed, you get to decide your own end in a merciful light!? Screw you! To hell with it!!!” Quaking, he gripped his tormentor’s corpse with regret-stained fingers seething with a burning fury.

  I’ve had my fill, said an ancient voice. My gift to you. Let us be one, till the end of our intertwined fates.

  Wisps of darkness emanated from Azrael’s fingers, weaving and swirling, making its way towards Mol’okh’s severed half. The vapours permeated the half-corpse, sheathing and pervading the entirety of his remains, till it was sucked into his carcass.

  “Gah!” Mol’okh gagged into wakefulness, reduced to nothing more than a head and one-third a torso, wearily taking note of his surroundings. Blinking back rapid wet, and fluttering lids in a fit of confusion, his eyes adjusted to the light. He looked displaced from his own reality. A world he had carved out on his own. Finally, he settled his gaze on Azrael, widening his eyes. “You!? Where did my creation go?”

  “Your creation?” asked the redhead, raising an eyebrow. In a heated fervour, he grabbed the half-corpse with both his hands. “You can’t die blissfully.” Rising to his feet, he sunk his fingers into Mol’okh’s throat, drawing blood. He could hear his tormentor belch, squirming as a maggot would against calamitous power.

  “No, no.” His screeches were forced past an obstructed glottis. “It should be him, not you. What did you do with my creation!? Do have an inkling of how long it took to reach this point!?”

  “No. Nor do I care.” Azrael summoned every ounce of strength he could, crushing Mol’okh’s windpipe before hurling him to the ground. A sharp crack echoed, sounding split suture lines along the skull.

  But it wasn’t enough to satiate him.

  Raising his foot above the remnants of the tattered torso, he let his leg fall, stomping down with relentless fury. A smirk parted his lips, and a chortle bubbled out his throat, fuelled by a deep-seated intoxication.

  “No, nooo,” wheezed his tormentor. His face was bloodied, his eyes wide and pouring.

  “Is this what it means to be whole again?” hissed Azrael. “If I can take pleasure in the atrocity you revelled in, perhaps the two of us aren’t so different.”

  In a crunch, Mol’okh’s cranium caved in, exposing a fresh glob of gyri beneath.

  The redhead cackled, slobber trickling down his lips. His hands were held up over his head, his throat gurgling laughter. He swung from side to side, a drunken fervour taking hold of his body, seizing his mind. He never knew he could feel such a high, living out a moment he’d never thought would come to be.

  His feet rammed into a wet softness. As his heel dug into the slick matter, he realised he had stomped on the exposed brain. In a confused flutter of his eyelids, the redhead’s world began spinning, his feet kicking the air, flipping his head on his heels. A throb of pain and a realm of darkness pounded against his consciousness, devouring him, in one fell swoop.

  With a flushed face, he finished the last of his sandwich. He cupped his chin in his hands, doubled over in unbridled mortification. “What the hell was that?”

  “Sandwich don’t sit well with ya?” asked the driver, scornful.

  “Oh no no no, just thinking out loud. The sandwich brought me back to life.” Azrael managed a weary shrug. “Just can’t locate where I am. Never been around these parts before and I have no recollection of how I got here.”

  “Son, ya in some kinda trouble?” asked the driver, peering at the redhead through his rear-view mirror.

  “Just amnesiac after a night out. My friends love messing around, though this is the furthest they’ve taken a prank.” He chuckled awkwardly, rubbing the back of his head.

  “Aight.” The driver continued on in silence, his gaze shifting from the road back to his hitchhiker, every other span.