Eclipse of the Devouring Angel

The day the sun bled was the day the sky stopped being our friend. At first, it was just the light. A strange dimming, like dusk pressing its fingers over the day too early. People came out of their houses, shading their eyes, pointing upward. The eclipse wasn’t scheduled. There was no warning, no scientific explanation, no calm voices on the radio. Just darkness. And then—the screaming started. Not from the people.From the sky. It began as a low vibration, deep enough to shiver the bones. The clouds convulsed, twisting into shapes that resembled faces—gasping, stretching, contorted in agony, as if something enormous pressed against the barrier between our world and a place never meant to touch ours. Then the red ring appeared. A perfect burning halo, as though something had taken a bite out of the sun and left only the smoldering edge. Flames dripped from it like molten blood. The ground trembled. And in the center of that infernal crown, a shape pulled itself through. At first, it was only a blot—a stain of blackness that made the surrounding light recoil. Then wings unfurled. Not feathers… not anything natural. They spread like shadows torn by claws: ragged, dripping darkness that writhed on its own. The figure descended slowly, a silhouette too tall, too thin, trailing a smear of darkness down to the earth like a gaping wound in the sky. No one ran.No one could. Something about it forced your body to obey a single command: watch. I could feel my heartbeat thudding violently against my ribs, begging me to look away. Tears streamed down my face, not from sorrow but from a choking terror—pure and ancient, the kind that reminded your soul of everything it had ever feared. The creature’s face—or what should have been its face—was a hollow void. No eyes. No mouth. Only a pulsing black emptiness, like the essence of night given form. But I could feel it watching me. All of us. As it hovered, the sky behind it twisted, as though the universe itself was bending to escape. The screams from the clouds grew louder—the faces within them clawing at the sky’s surface, begging for release or mercy or death, I couldn’t tell. Then the world changed. A gust of wind blasted from the creature’s wings, but it wasn’t air—it was despair. The moment it hit us, memories began to rot. First happy ones: birthdays, laughter, old songs. Then important ones: names, faces, who we were. The wind stripped them away like flesh from bone. People dropped to their knees, clutching their skulls, gasping like their minds were being siphoned out. I tried to scream.Nothing came out. The creature raised one elongated arm, its shadow stretching across the earth until it swallowed the horizon. The red ring behind it pulsed, like a heartbeat—slow, steady, inevitable. Then someone whispered behind me. “It’s not an angel falling…It’s an angel returning.” Returning from where? I didn’t want to know.But the whisper continued: “They cast it out for what it created.Now it’s here to finish it.” The creature’s form began to grow—blurring, stretching, towering until it became part of the sky itself. The world dimmed further. Color drained from everything as though reality was being erased. And then—the creature finally looked at me. Not with eyes, because it had none.It looked with its emptiness. A pull seized my chest.My thoughts.My soul. I felt myself being dragged upward, as if gravity were reversing only for me. The air became ice. My vision blurred. Shadows curled around my limbs like claws. As I rose off the ground, my last coherent thought burned itself into my fading mind: This thing wasn’t arriving.It was awakening.And we were its first meal. The sky swallowed me. And the sun kept bleeding.

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