Your doom has arrived.
And it is not what you had foreseen. But it isn’t benign, either. Not something you can survive.
One morning, you knew, the angel of suffering would manifest in your home. Merciless. Beyond reason. And destroy everything you had left with her hurricane of white wings.
Your end begins the moment, months or years before, when you see her face in your dreams. Waifish. Sunken-eyed. Starved.
Escape would be so easy, now, so effortless. But the slow innoculation of your mind unfolds. Your research into the eldritch and occult tells you that such dreams have no bearing on reality. Just the immature fantasy of “being special.” Your research takes you deeper.
Your allies and friends fall away one by one, withering in the face of the changes taking over you. Curious to the point of obsession. Interested to the point of addiction. They do not comprehend your missing time. Your haunted tone. Your hungry eyes.
Your library and your dreams reveal all pasts and all futures. Every possibility is seen to you. Your body aches after every night. Every move you make is cloaked. Your back and shoulders are marked by sores. Every goal you attain is untraceable.
Why do you hurt people? Better question, you ask: why do you hurt?
On the morning that your doom arrives, no intruder disturbs your waking sleep. Breaks down your door. Shatters your closet mirror.
Spasms overtake your back, your shoulders. A cacophany of white wings erupts from your body. In the shards of silvered-glass all around, you see the starved, sunken-eyed face from your dreams.
The angel of suffering has arrived.