The Lost Soul
Prologue
Heart pumping. Anxiety. Muscles tighten. Goosebumps. Constricted breathing.
Dilated pupils. Sweating. Nervous. Worried. Adrenaline. Excitement.
Falling.
Physically. Mentally. Emotionally.
No one warns you when it happens. When it does, there is no stopping it. Even if something cushions your fall, you still fell, and the feeling is still there.
It was not supposed to happen. It should not have felt so right. It should have hurt, but he was there, and she was caught off guard.
Annabelle watched the mortals below. She watched their sanctity, their achievements, and their happiness, but she watched their sorrows most of all. For every tear that was shed, a new flower she would create. She filled their realm with gardens and meadows. She heeded over them and kept them close in her heart.
Celestials were forbidden to interact with humans directly. They were imperfect beings, with few morals, if any. To Annabelle though, they captivated her—all their flaws and quirks. Everything about them, she was in utter infatuation.
However, there was one she had a special fondness for. She followed his life and watched over him, even in his darkest times. Whether he knew it or not, he had his own guardian angel. Perhaps she had a little more than just a fondness for this mortal soul, and maybe, this is where her fall truly began.
She had created a flower just for him. Its meaning had more than just one. The first to symbolize rejected love, since his parents gave him none. The next, to help him find passionate love, something every soul deserves to find. The last was unintentional, for she added too much of herself into its creation—a spiritual connection. A connection beyond life and death, a bit of her own soul, she poured into its shape. A ‘bleeding heart’ he would someday find to heal his own soul’s aches.
Chapter 1: The Lost Soul
Savill stumbled out of the bar, each arm wrapped around the waists of two, obviously inebriated, young people as they continued down the walkway. His chin-length, mocha curls brushed against the patch covering his left eye as he leaned onto the male of the couple. Balancing himself precariously while tossing one arm into the air to hail a cab. The night was thick with the scent of alcohol, and Savill’s cheeky grin widened as he managed a wink at his new companions, who giggled as they climbed into the back of the taxi.
“Let’s take this party back to my place,” he declared, his words slightly slurred, enthusiasm radiating from him despite his ruffled appearance.
He awoke sometime around midday – the couple he was with vanished, leaving nothing behind except a few small marks down his neck and a note that read ’Thanks for the good time.’ Groaning, Savill checked around for his clothes, finding his pants, and noticed his wallet halfway across the room. It was empty, all except his I.D. and a few random receipts. He sighed, rubbing his temples, and picked up a half-full bottle of vodka and made his way to the bedroom. Flopping himself onto the bed, he stared blankly at the ceiling, the room spinning in a slow dance of regret. His vodka-laden breath mingled with the scent of fine linens, a lingering reminder of the indulgence that marked the night.
A subtle fragrance lingered—a mix of aged bourbon, cigarettes, and traces of expensive cologne. The hardwood floors beneath his bare feet felt smooth and polished, hinting at meticulous upkeep. His head pounded; thoughts scrambled. Savill could not remember much from the previous night except for a blur of faces, loud music, and shots of tequila. He knew he shouldn’t have let himself get carried away like that, but he couldn’t help it. He had been going through a rough patch lately, the alcohol had been his only solace. Taking a swig of the vodka, grimacing as it burned down his esophagus. He needed to get his act together and figure out what to do next.
Savill sighed and made his way to the bathroom, his shirt slipping off his shoulder. He needed a shower and a change of clothes. He found a clean towel and a robe lying on the floor, picked them up, and headed to the shower. The layout of the house revealed itself as he staggered his feet. An exquisitely designed study beckoned, complete with a plush leather chair nestled in the corner. Bookshelves lined the walls, their contents well-organized. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow on the room’s ornate decor.
The bathroom greeted him with pristine elegance, the cool touch of the marble under his feet sent a quick shiver up his spine. Moments later, he let his mind wander, the droplets of hot water mixing with his tangled thoughts. He needed to get his life back on track, but he had no idea where to start. Lost in introspection, the water cascading down his body seemed to wash away the night’s regrets.
After leaving his house, Savill wandered aimlessly through the streets, lost in thought. He stumbled upon a park and decided to sit down on a nearby bench. As he sat there, the weight of his problems pressing down, he stared into the distance. His hands absentmindedly played with the empty vodka bottle. The world around him blurred, and he fell into a troubled slumber, the park bench offering a makeshift refuge for his exhausted and despairing soul.
The next morning, Savill woke up on the park bench, feeling stiff and disoriented. Dark circles clung to his eyes, mirroring the shadows that loomed over his recent choices. The onlookers, early risers in the park, exchanged glances and murmured amongst themselves. Their curious looks painted an uncomfortable portrait of scrutiny, and he felt the weight of their unspoken judgments.
The bottle he had tightly clutched the night before had rolled away, a cruel reminder of his downward spiral. Determined to turn things around, he stood up, brushed off the dirt from his clothes with a heavy heart, and made his way back to the mortuary where he worked as an apprentice. The weight of responsibility, contrasting sharply with the hazy memories of the night before.
As he walked through the familiar streets, the events of the previous nights replayed in his mind like a haunting film, each scene dripping with remorse. Returning to his work at the morgue felt like a desperate attempt to reclaim some semblance of control. The city’s heartbeat echoed in his ears, a stark contrast to the unrest he felt. Each pulsating thud seemed to underscore the gravity of his recent actions.
Upon arriving at the morgue, Savill was greeted by the cold, clinical atmosphere that had become his uneasy refuge. His mentor, Dr. Wallace, noticed his disheveled appearance and bloodshot eye.
“Late again, Savill?” Dr. Wallace remarked, his tone a combination of concern and frustration.
Savill nodded, avoiding eye contact. “I... had a rough night,” he admitted, his voice laden with confession.
Dr. Wallace sighed, recognizing the signs of a troubled soul. “Well, get yourself together. We’ve got work to do.” The sterile environment seemed to amplify the delicacy of their duties, offering a peculiar solace in its predictability.
Throughout the day, Savill threw himself into his duties at the morgue, trying to drown out the chaos that had consumed his personal life. The precise nature of his job provided a strange comfort – dealing with the deceased helped him gain perspective on the fragility of life. Yet even as he worked diligently, he couldn’t escape the nagging feeling that he needed more than just a routine to his shattered life.
Despite his initial conceptions, Savill found himself succumbing to the lure of his old habits. Against his better judgment, he went out again after work, seeking solace in the chaotic embrace of the night. The city lights flickered overhead like distant stars, the pounding music resonating through his bones, and the allure of debauched escape drew him in like a moth to a flame.
He found himself surrounded by the deafening beats of loud music, neon lights flickering overhead, and the intoxicating scent of various substances. Strangers pawed at each other in dimly lit corners, and random people pulled him into the pulsating rhythm of the dance floor. The allure of the night seemed to drown out the troubles he had been trying to escape, the chaotic energy providing a momentary reprieve from the monotony of his haunted thoughts.
As Savill continued to revel in the night, he made a series of regrettable decisions, surrendering himself to a dangerous concoction of drugs and alcohol. The very vices he had sought to escape now ensnared him in their relentless grip. Despite the fleeting ecstasy he found on the dance floor, the repercussions of his actions only deepened the inner turmoil that had driven him to this point.
His initial resolve crumbled beneath the weight of familiar temptations. The thumping bass of the music enveloped him, a cacophony drowning out the persistent whispers of responsibility. Intoxicated by the rhythm and the substances coursing through his veins, he navigated through the crowd to the bar, where shots of vodka beckoned like a deceptive promise of liberation.
The night unfolded in a chaotic blur of lights and laughter, with strangers becoming momentary companions in a shared pursuit of oblivion. At some indistinct point, Savill stumbled towards the bathroom, the world spinning around him. In the dimly lit restroom, he sought desperate refuge in the bottle of vodka he had acquired, a shaky crutch in the face of his spiraling choices.
Leaning against the cold bathroom counter, the harsh reality of his actions hit him with a wave of nausea. His head pounded, thoughts scrambled, and the weight of his choices bore down on him. In a haze of confusion and despair, Savill clutched the bottle tightly, seeking solace in its numbing embrace.
His descent into darkness reached its climax as he slumped onto a nearby table, unable to resist the overwhelming fatigue and intoxication. The bottle remained firmly gripped in his hand as he succumbed to the merciless pull of unconsciousness, sprawled out on the table in a dimly lit corner of the club. The night that commenced with a fragile promise of escape had transformed into another tumultuous chapter in Savill’s feverish journey, leaving him passed out amidst the chaotic remnants of the escape he had desperately sought.
In his disoriented state, Savill’s surroundings blurred into an unbelievable display, the strobing lights of the club merging with the jarring beats of the music. As he lay slumped on the table, gripping the bottle of vodka like a lifeline, the boundaries between reality and illusion began to waver. The thumping bass transformed into an otherworldly rhythm, each beat booming through his very core; everything around him seemed to vibrate with an inexplicable energy.
In an instant, the dimly lit corner of the club morphed into something altogether stranger than any hallucinogen could have concocted. It shimmered with an unearthly energy, and before Savill could fully grasp the transformation, a peculiar portal materialized. Its dark vortex, swirling with an irresistible force, seemed to reach out for him. The anarchic atmosphere of the club dissolved as he was pulled into it, his body twisting and turning as he was dragged into the abyss.
As he hurtled through this dreamlike dimension, the familiar sights and sounds of the club were replaced by a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes. The world around him distorted and twisted, and the disorienting journey through this bizarre realm left him both exhilarated and bewildered. Savill found himself in a place that defied explanation, with the boundaries of reality bending in ways that challenged his very understanding of the world.
