Ten minutes before the alarm buzzes, he startles awake. The sheets soaked with sweat, he kicks them off reflexively and sits up, rubbing his eyes. The small clock on the floor next to his mattress reads 10:50.

With a curse he gets up and walks the short distance to the bathroom. The image that greets him looks like shit. Three days of stubble, beads of sweat on the brow, hair tousled in a hundred different directions. His tan no doubt suffering due to lack of sun, a relic of his vacation to Cozumel. Running his fingers through his short hair, he takes a deep breath, his dark eyes a blaze of brown and red.

A quick shower later, the salt and grime are removed. After a nice shave, his face is almost presentable. Nothing he can do for his eyes here though. A small smile cracks the somber mans face as he makes his way to the kitchen and the blessed coffee maker.

The smell fills the stuffy apartment, adding to the menagerie of odor. Three days cooped up inside acclimates one, so only the fresh smell of brewing coffee catches his notice.

Fresh cup in hand, it's steam filling his nostrils, it's bitter hot taste filling his throat, he opens the front door and steps outside into the light. Instantly, he regrets this bold decision. Not for the fact that he's dressed in a towel only, or even despite the fact that he has only recently awoken so close to noon. Rather, the sun is so evil to one who has lived in an unlit room for days on end. The grass too green, the trees too alive and cheerful. Stepping back into the apartment, he finally detects the effects of unopened windows and unwashed laundry and dishes. Leaving the door open, he marvels at the dance of the motes in the rays of light which stab into the dark living room, daggers into a heart of darkness.

He chuckles at the little joke. Heart of darkness indeed.

The half empty cup nearly drops from his hand as the phone screams. Cursing, he picks up the reciever and cradles it between his shoulder and ear, as he wipes off spilled coffee from his hand onto his towl-kilt.

"Yes?"

"God Damn it Andrew! I'm getting sick and tired of this disappearing act, and recieving bills from all over the damn world!"

There is some other screeching, but he's ceased listening. My father is definitly a one trick horse, he thinks with a chuckle.

During a pause, no doubt for him to take a breath, he interjects, "Gee 'dad', nice to talk to you too."

"Don't you get flippant with me, BOY! When did you get back into town?"

"Well, DAD, i've been back a few days. I'll be seeing you around, give my best to mom."

With a practiced non-chalance, the reciever is placed back into it's cradle, a loud screeching rant about responsibility cut off abruptly.

A deep sigh fills his lungs. His father is the bane of his existance. No, the man from his dreams is his bane, he thinks. Dad is merely an inconvenience. He has no vision. He doesn't see the big picture. I'll show them.

Another cup of coffee later, and his nerves are calm. The sound of the ceiling fan gives him a focus to relax his mind. It's been so hard to find the center of late. More so now, than any other time in his 37 years, he feels out of control. He feels like a pawn. All his life, he had direction, a reason. But the last month has changed all that. Of course, hindsight is twenty twenty. The signs were all there. Blind as a child, he thinks. Blind to the strings which guided my every movement.

Getting up, he closes the front door, and peeks out the blinds in the kitchen window. He's performed this ritual a dozen times at least in the last three days. Small fingers of sunlight cross his face. He wonders again, is this the day?

As he steps back, a low nausea grips him. His equilibrium leaves him for a moment, and he braces himself against the wall. Not a toss your cookies sort of nausea, but a ghost passing through sort. Like someone walked on your grave, but with sharp cleets. After a moment, it passes. They always do. The bad things is, they're becoming more and more frequent. He chuckles morbidly as he makes an analogy to labor pains.

He finally decides to stop hiding in this small empty apartment. If it is his destiny to meet one who will be his death? Then so be it. No way i'm going out without a fight though, he mutters under his breath.

Austin was always a good place for the freaks to hide among the general populace. Those who might find their paths and ways unpopular elsewhere can generall find acceptance here, if not at least some privacy. It's also a great place to just chill.

The small Subaru pulls into the bookstore parking lot. The engine dies with a sputter that might make someone thing it was actually dying. There are several pops and grindings which go on several seconds after the key is actually pulled from the ignition. A scowl covers his face.

"Fucking car. I know you have it in for me."

With a hard push, the door slams shut.

"Bitch."

He strides into the bookstore. A moment is spent merely taking in the wonderful air conditioning.

The bad thing about Austin, is it is in Texas, and Texas summers are a real bitch. Getting out and about usually means finding some place with functional a/c.

Not really here to "buy" anything, he merely browses, looking to kill time. Something, anything to get his mind off of life.

Up and down the isles he walks, stopping only briefly to read titles on spines, look at pictures on dust covers. Ignoring people, his mind is not even on where he is, what he is doing. Several times he nearly walks into someone or other.

At some point, time really a moot factor right now, he stops in the Native American Studies section. One title grabs him, like a hand around he throat. "The Trickster", it says. He pulls it out. No, it almost jumps into his hand, like a long lost friend, returning home. He opens it, not caring to read it, only to look upon the print. The Raven. Object of myth the world over. Trickster, harbinger, creator, messenger. He looks around, a nervous tick on his upper lip. But no one is paying attention. How much longer can this go on? How much more can he take? His mind races as he quickly slides the book back onto the shelf.

Now, he does manage to bump into someone as he quickly races for the door. A quick apology later, and he leaves some young man with a pile of books and a confused look on his face in his wake. The hot, humid air never felt so good.

All those people. His face pale despite a dark tan. He muses, as he catches his breath, that he wishes he could be like them once in a while. So unaware. So innocent. What would they do if they gazed past the curtain which keeps reality in check? Could they handle the horror? The heritage of denial is generations deep. Those who walk around with a knowing look in their eye, they are fooling themselves. Ones who have really seen past the illusion, and have not gone mad, they wear their masks tight. Tighter than ever. His eyes dance around, but people just make their merry way. The trees even ignore him now.

As he pulls his hands away from the railing, it shakes. He hears a crow's caw in the distance. Not quite the same, but a close cousin. There are no coincidences. The old man said something like that once, he thinks. Possibly in a vision, or a dream. Was it a joke?

Does it even matter anymore? I'm getting to the point where i can't even tell the difference, he muses. Is this the price i pay? For the nth time he wonders if he has truly gone insane. Looking down at his shaking hand, he runs his fingers along the lines of his palm. How fragile, how solid, how fleeting. His thoughts run to the last time he touched that which he calls Raven. To the last time he touched on the horrible edges of the darkness where the old man taught him to go. The nausea grips him again, nearly making him burst into tears, yell out in horror. He covers his eyes with that fragile hand, rubs them until they hurt. The pain makes the darkness go away, anything to leave that place, drive it back to the recesses of his mind.

Looking up, a light breeze greets him. He decides some food will help. Something decidedly nasty. Glancing around, he notices several candidates, fried this, fried that, health food, pizza, etc etc. Deciding on fish, he makes his way in that direction. Avoiding his battered car, he walks, the short distance easily covered on foot. No need to aggravate the little red demon-car in his life any more than necessary.

One of his eyes opens slowly. There is a hard, throbbing pressure against the other. He feels a sort of crust separate as his eyelid parts. He wonders, "Have i been asleep? I don't remember being asleep..." It takes him a moment to realize he did not think this, but vocalized it. He wonders that his voice is so ragged? He then notices there is a sticky feeling on the side of his face. Moving his head results in a yelp of pain. Both from actual pain *in* his face and head, and from separation of skin from what he realizes is vinyl. Lying his head back down, the pain subsides somewhat.

Realization brings only more pain. Where one dies down, another flares up. It's everywhere, stabbing, throbbing, pulsing. He begins to hyperventilate from panic, but quickly notices only one nostril seems to be working. This makes him choke and open his mouth. That lets him breath a little better. A mental sigh escapes as he feels something hard slip out of his mouth. Running his tongue around the rim of his gums reveals a lost tooth, and several loose associates.

The light tan color of the vinyl focuses into place. A plexiglass divider over the seat. Voices outside, voices inside, real, mechanical. A police cruiser. Great, he thinks. A fight. I've been in a fight and i don't even remember it. He groans again, successfully this time.

The door next to his head opens once, and he feels the gaze of someone upon his broken self. Just as quickly, the door closes. As it does, he closes his eye, and performs a ritual he has not in close to twenty years.

He prays.

He stares up at the concrete ceiling. He taps his fingers against the cinderblock walls. He peers out the tiny window in the steel door. He pisses down the hole they call a latrine.

The drunk tank. How insulting, he thinks. I haven't had a drink in years. Do you have to be drunk to start some shit in a Long Johns? He almost laughs. No doubt they expect him to be beligerant. He is anything but. Soon enough, they'll move him to general holding. Then he can make his call, get the hell out of here. Jail is the last place he needs to be.

He runs through a mental checklist of who he can call to bail him out. He immediately crosses his father off. There are still a few friends he can kept in touch with over the years. Perhaps they can be convinced to post bail. It's not like he's not good for it after all.

Bah, he thinks. They're all rat-bastards. He burned so many bridges in his day, he doubts they'd talk more than a minute once they found out it was him. He bangs his hand against the hard walls, and is rewarded with a fresh stab of pain. Broken finger, for sure, he muses. His eyes still bruised, at least, he thinks it is, from what he can tell in the polished stainless steel plate above the sink they call a mirror. An assortment of bruises and abrasions cover his body. He's sure his nose and at least one finger is broken. One tooth lost so far. One more may follow. At least i'm not pissing blood anymore, he mutters as he buttons up the jeans he's worn for the last, two days has it been?

Flashes of light, darkness.

The man comes for him, water on his face. He cannot move, he cannot run. Tears cover him. Tears drown him.

The knife cuts him.

He screams a silent scream, his voice lost to him.

The Woman is there. A sad look in her eye.

"I'm sorry this had to happen. If there were another way..."

He starts to cry.

She holds his hand, "I know it's been hard, but it'll soon be over."

She leads him up, up into the trees. He's flying again, like he did in the beginning, and a smile forms on his face.

A raven flies next to them, higher and higher.

He startles awake, as he has done so many times before. The same dream. It's always the same dream. He accepts he is insane now. He smoothes his prison issue overalls, this his second night in lockup. Surrounded by sleeping teenagers caught having a little too much fun, various gang bangers, and assorted so called criminals, all sleeping the night away, he stands up quietly.

He feels the darkness now, it grips him, surrounds him. He is not nauseated though. It flows through him, lets his hands unbutton the clothing he wears. It quiets him, where once he might have cried out at the very thought. It comforts him, where once he knew only terror.

Like a blanket of shadow, Raven's wings have enveloped him. He grins at the thought. It all makes such sense now. No point in dragging it out any further.

He slips out of his prison issue and begins to silently knot the legs.

Looking around, he inspects the locals for movement. Nothing. Back to his appointed work, he wonders how it will turn out? So strange not to be afraid, after so much fear. He worries about his mother. He always loved her.

Walking slowly to the bars of his cell, he slips one pantleg around the top of the bar above the cell door. He backs up and climbs deftly onto the top bunk. His "roommate" quiet on the mattress. As it should be. His neck is broken, of course.

With a piteous look, he stare in the low light at the remains of his face. His sockets empty, their recent occupants sacrificed to show him what will be, what could be. Such tricks are grisly, but rarely fail. He frowns as he recalls nothing. Absolutely nothing. It is over.

He pulls the makeshift noose tight. Leaning forward, he loops it around his neck, and ties it into a slip knot. He makes his second prayer in twenty years, that it will be a clean break, then tumbles forward.