PROLOGUE tell me this isn't real

silverSTREAMERS' prologue.

Prologue

I perch lightly on the couch, unsure of what I am doing or how I had even gotten here. I an garbed in the uniform blue jeans and white blouse that dominate my pathetic excuse for a wardrobe, which isn’t odd except for the little fact that I swear I’d fallen asleep in my flannel pajamas. They have penguins on them, I remember; it was the first time I had worn them. Had I slept-walked? Dreamed about falling asleep? Am I going mad? My head begins to ache at this idea; my life is crazy enough without me being insane myself.

        Fresh Prince is flashing across the large television screen, one of my favorite shows. It makes no sound, though the usual “Mute” isn’t featured in the bottom right corner in bright yellow letters. I don’t think about it too hard, as this last thought occurs to me later on when I reminisced about the whole ordeal. For a few moments, I observe the show in drowsy silence. A dry chuckle escapes my throat at Will smacking Carlton, until something outside the foggy window catches my eye.

I jerk my head around and stare intensely through the misted glass. Darkness swathes the night, and the slightly blacker shadow that must be the great oak tree in my backyard is barely distinguishable. Then I see it again. A shadow slips by, pearly fangs glinting in the moonlight, claret eyes glowing like a pair of twin rubies. Every one of my muscles freeze.

Someone is outside my house. Oh, my God. Someone is in my backyard. Who? A robber? A murderer? A rapist? I begin to stand, hear a noise, and slowly sink back down. My mom. I need to wake her. She will call the police and stow me away somewhere safe while she gets Joe to investigate. Yeah, wake the ‘rents, then take refuge in a closet somewhere; a perfect plan.

No, I can’t do that. There is probably nothing out there anyway, just my sleepy mind screwing with me. I tuck my legs under a conveniently placed blanket, the fabric soft against my bare skin. Slowly turning my attention back to the glowing TV, I try to block the morbid thoughts of rapists and assassins from my head, though my hackles insist on rising with every slight sound.

In an instant, rain begins to pour down from the cloudy heavens and successfully drenches beyond the window. A roll of thunder sounds, electricity slashing through the clouds. A door slams down the hall, making me jump, but I reason, Just the wind. Get over it, Terri. No big deal. My muscles stiffen regardless.

I slip soundlessly from the couch and flex my hands nervously. Reaching for the remote, I flick the television off and stretch out my legs in long strides. “Hello?” I manage to utter, my voice choked and raw. Footsteps rap against the hardwood floor, or at least something akin to it—they are too hollow, too sharp. My muscles coiled and ready to snap into action at the very first hint of danger, I purposefully edge out of the den and sidle around the wall that hides the foyer, easy, easy, easy—

A scream tears from my throat. No one seems to hear me, for there is no mad rush to see what is wrong—or maybe they just don’t care. There is only me . . . and that thing. I stand there, quivering in fright, fumbling for a nearby table lamp to swing in defense. My fingers have gone numb and fail to get a good grip, though. It clatters loudly to the ground.

Before me, standing regally and deadly in my hallway, is a four-legged something. Its frame is sleek and sinewy, muscles toning its flanks and slender legs. Beautiful hairs a silver that jewelers can only envy cover its body. Those long, thin front legs end in claws like none I had ever seen—hooked like a hawk’s talons but retractable in the way a cat’s are—wicked and sharp as daggers. Its back feet are tamer, similar to a donkey’s cloven hooves, and crystalline with a dark blue tint; I can see right through them. A long, slender tail falls loosely to the floor, swaying back and forth nonchalantly, but, to my dismay, is tipped with a pair of vicious pincers. Its face—the shape of it is rather equine, but a mask of shadows hides it from view. A spiral horn, though, rips through it from the center of the creature’s forehead.

The Something advances, not exactly threateningly, but I am unable to perceive anything but sheer, unreasonable, illogical terror. Another scream reverberates off of the high ceiling until my voice is faltering and hoarse. The Something continues towards me, its moonbrushed eyes glittering like ice. Then a thought blossoms in my head; a thought that I did not think, a thought foreign to my conscience. You will be Revilar's savior. Perhaps it said something else. Perhaps I misheard it. But I cannot reason.

        This cannot be happening, I think, pressing against the wall, desperate to get away but too panicked to find the opening into the den. There is not a freaking horse-cat-donkey-unicorn thing here in my house. I am dreaming. This is not real. Oh my Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. No no no no no no…

Author's Note

Nothing special. Cheesy, probably exaggerated, and not really suspenseful. Can you say "revision"?