yardbird | ✘ lost in the flames

At first glance, it all appears to be the same. The place he once called home is in the same condition in which Murphy had left it.

With the exception of a distant static.

Ahhh...

...And that.

The front door slams behind him. Dust picks up in the air, carrying eddies across the carpet and hardwood. Murphy shuffles through the foyer, hearing the silence becomes assaulted by whisperings and hums. From the kitchen, something shimmers, and the peculiarity is too great to ignore. Because this is where the humming is coming from.

"Is anybody here...?" Carol, he wonders. He's almost certain that that's what this is about. If there's a ticket to unfinished business that could help get him out of here, it has to be her.

When Murphy stands in the entry to the kitchen, he takes notice that this is the one thing that was most definitely not present before he left. And it's definitely not Carol, either.

Funny. He's never recalled there ever being the display of a winged torso here, or anywhere in his house. But there it is, back facing him as Murphy approaches the thing, and not once does it move. If it's one thing that he knows by now, however, it's that that doesn't mean it can't hurt you.

Upon closer inspection, it looks like the lower half of a woman without an upper half. The arms simply make up the wings. Looking down at where the tips of the "feathers" ought to be, the hands stretch from the wings, pressing themselves to the floor. It remains perfectly still, plain and porcelain and statuesque. The surface of it looks so fragile that it could break with a slight touch.

It doesn't seem to like that very much. Touching, that is. Not when Murphy had started reaching out without even realizing it, eyes fixed on the mouth that's somehow stuck to the thing's back. The mouth opens. From inside, an eye opens as well -- watching him.

"Wha...!" Murphy yelps as the display springs to life without warning. The eye makes a sick sound as it shifts around, widening like saucers. The wings snap. In the blink of an eye, the torso has turned and faced him. The tip of its toes drag across the ground as it floats towards him, its speed incredible...

Rather than using the wings to fly, it defies all laws of logic. Instead, the hand-feathers lash out, both wings grabbing Murphy's arms, shoulders, and neck in attempt to pull him towards it.

He yells, foolishly deprived of a weapon at the moment, and uses his legs to kick it in the pelvic region. Such fragile-looking material doesn't give way as easily as it looks, but his efforts did earn a crack all up to the gaping hole in its chest. As it attempts to pull Murphy into it, another eye snaps open from that chest-hole, revealing a black iris watching him.

"Back off!" Murphy doesn't know why he bothers. It's not like intimidation tactics work on these things like they did on prison brothers. This is a second nature to him, though -- instinct, as he flails helplessly in the glass arms that lift him from the ground. He gasps for air, screaming and kicking in order to create as much damage as he could. The cracks extend from the area that he created, breaking into the chest-hole.

Ahhh, ahhh! AHHHHHHHH!

The hums may have been interpreted as an angelic choir. A deceptive ruse; there was nothing sweet and celestial about this thing now, when its eye rolls over. The sweet hums turned into a sick, deafening shriek, piercing his ears. Murphy's own desperate voice contributes to this horrid sound, while he struggles to escape its clutching fingers.

It won't let go.

This thing that could have been mistaken for an angel shrills. Finally, it releases him.

But he's not safe, not yet. Its still floating, quaking, screaming while the cracks that Murphy's kicks had scarred into it starts mending on its own.

Shit, that just figures. Murphy scrambles from the ground, struggling to regain equilibrium as he throws himself towards the kitchen counter. The cutting board is exactly where he remembers it's always been. Perfect.

As the figure stands in the idle process of healing itself, Murphy swings around, cutting board in both hands.

Hard wood trumps a boot-kick, as it would seem when Murphy smacks the board against the angel's wing. A hole breaks through, creating a spider-web of more cracks all around it. It's effective, so he hits it again.

Then he hits it again.

And again.

And again...

Until the winged thing crumbles. The angelic sounds stifle into nothing but dusty coughs, which actually turn out to be just Murphy trying to catch his breath.

It leaves behind a lot of dust all over the kitchen floor.

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✘ lost in the flames

{Ever Expanding Circles | Part II.}