This isn’t the life I planned - it’s not the end I anticipated, either.

I look down at the seashell, the last tangible hope I have. Everything else has been lost. The skin on the back of my neck prickles as the solemn bong of the clock brings his presence closer.

I cannot stop the inevitable, and I cannot control fate. I was a fool to think I could.

There are footsteps outside of the door, and the last sad bong of the clock fades away. He’s there; I can feel him, with his cold eyes and calm smile, as if there were no door and he stood in front of me. The tension crackles in the air, and I ready myself to face death.

Hours ... minutes ... seconds ... the last noises of life blend into the sweet, empty bliss of ignorance. For a shining moment, it’s quite okay to release everything. It’s all right for my heart to leap with joy at the fact that it will all be over soon. For a second, I let go of trouble.

A chuckle outside the church; my eyes fly open and I feel sick with dread. Without warning, the door smashes in. Splinters of wood and metal scraps hail down on me as I crouch like hardened rain. I shriek, dropping to my knees and wrapping my arms around my legs in a pathetic attempt to defend myself. It’s like trying to defend my past decisions. There is no point in trying to hide anymore. Only the last sane part of me dares to dream of escape.

He steps in, his smile bitter and dangerous. The dim white light pools at his feet, and he emerges from the fog. His slender figure is silhouetted against the dank gray of the outside world (which seems to have stopped) and he asks sweetly, “What’s this, darling?” I grip the shell - miraculously still whole - as I look up at him, my insides churning with horror.

“Are you afraid of death?” he coos, dragging a finger down the side of my face. He sounds almost amused by my fear. Is this a natural question for him to ask his prey? I would ask, but I fear he would cut out my tongue. Instead, I shake my head, trying to wish him away. It’s about as effective as trying to bite a flying bullet. He steps back, extending a youthful, willowy hand. His face is suddenly stern, as if he were not pleased with my answer. I keep my eyes on his hand, his fingernails painted the forbidden color. With a sinking feeling, I realize there is nothing this man won’t do.

I look from his hand to his eyes, and then back. He stares at me patiently, his face unreadable. I shake my head, moving my gaze. I’m afraid if I stare into those eyes for too long, the forbidden color will melt into me.

“You have no choice,” he quietly reminds me, his hand extended and waiting. I nod, climbing to my feet to stand on shaky knees. I take one wobbly step, then another. I don’t want to stand this close to him, but I have no choice. I cautiously reach out a hand, wondering if his flesh will sear mine with the heat of sin or damnation. In a fluid movement, he slips his fingers around my wrist; he’s strong for a man his size. He wraps an arm around my waist and hisses, “Sleep ....”