The Eyes of Hell

He woke with twilight in his eyes, damp forest in his nose, rocky soil in his back, the owl's hoots in his ears, and wild splitting terror in his heart. The waking crickets seemed to chirp in laughter at his gasps for the cold morning air.

The maniac's eyes still hung above his awakened face with a glare of contempt for him still being alive. The floating pair blinked once then shimmered away into the dawn. His consciousness could not handle the sight of the apparition and promptly fell back to sleep. The crickets chirped away, uncaring.

When next he woke, the sun had appeared but was being stubbornly blocked by blackening thunderheads. For ten minutes more he did not move from his tortured position on the stony forest floor. His mind was attempting to catch up and decipher what it and its body had been through in the darkness.

No question of dream or not issued forth. He had a white jagged scar down his left forearm that rebuked the possibility of a dream. It was definitely something from outside his vast experiences. The being saturated his reality with images and visions of pestilence and horror unlike any scene of war or surgery. There was no equal for the twisted decimation that the cursed being placed upon him.

As of yet he could not compose a motive or reason for this absolute horrendous attack. Perhaps it was the image of a patient he couldn't save or maybe an enemy soldier that he had murdered. There were, dare he think it, hundreds of possible enemies, alive and dead, that had a motive for this. But what man possessed this ability to make another scream for his life, for hours on end without any possible mode of defense.

He prayed, not positive it would do any good that it would never find him again.