The very last things you remember:
The bitter backwash of cinnamon crumbs and whiskey, a furnace in your gut.
The sinister chime of a child’s laughter.
A scrawled note charring black as light is snuffed.
The very first thing you hear, ground coal and static:
“Wake him.”
The second:
Clarion bells, amplified to cataclysm, a vibrational assault that stuns you alert, threatening your organs with liquefaction, bones pulp and jelly.
The bells bring immediate, unfathomable pain, furious seams of amber congealing as vision returns.
Before you, your dulled reflection, upturned. Black blood threads your wild beard, above which collapsing eye sockets trend fused and purple…
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