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Summary
Riley woke up… wrong. His head pulsed, his ears rang, his tongue was as dry as the Sahara. He also had the distinct impression that he shouldn't have woken at all. If he recalls correctly— and he does, in fact, in vivid detail— he had been mauled to death by one of the most wretched things he'd ever had the displeasure of seeing. He could still feel the impression of fangs in his neck and big, leathery wings beating the tile floors beside him. Its skin had been dry and wrinkled, like rubber on his own where it gripped him for a better bite. And then it was gone. As quick as it had happened, it had flown out into the night, not to be seen again. And then the Father was there. Holding him, cooing to him. He thinks he found comfort in it, in the moment— in not being alone. His fall had been witnessed, shared. It wasn't until there was oxygen in his lungs again that the thought occurred to him that the Father was in collusion with the beast.