Night of the Hunter

[Constantine]

Breath... Take in... Out...

The night above, the heat, the alarmed noise of the crowd... The man stood still, like the wind he would be expecting to ripple the air, unmoving. His eyes closed, beaten, no matter how hard he demands the heavens would not bow to his will. Breathing slowly, his lungs filled with that damp, hot air, his torso broadening wide with each inhale to let it calmly out.

...in... breath out... the relaxed beating of his heart was slowly being replaced by a racing one, his breathing becoming faster and faster. He was running through a field of long plants, like a tornado pushing everything away with a destructive force. There would be blood all over his body, there would be wounds and cuts, he wouldn't stop. There would be people mindlessly watching the travelling sun encroaching upon the horizon dusk, they would be thrown away, nothing would stop the race. But it was not enough... A purple flash from the horizon, and the race was lost.

The sky above was colored dark, reign of the night, night of the hunter.

In that pool of blood, with twenty mortal wounds stabbed over his giant back, he just laid. He would knew, that it is only the dusk, and the night would be harsh. He was almost happy with the defeat he suffered, and the weakness of his body would leave no room for the flare in his heart.

Rippling the red pool, a few tears from the night sky could survive the heat and reach to the thirsty earth. Darkness of the blood was softened by the tears of the sky, flooding the ground beneath until the man could no longer breath. He chose not to breath... He let the cold and dark waters take over the whole deal, rushing through the wounds of his body, filling in his whole being. A complete surrender, it felt so good, the fire inside was extinguished, the remains of his spirit evaporated.

A gasp in the dark, distant alarming noise, the rain falling upon his head and wetting his hair that's out of the window of his small apartment, eyes opening wide with the trumpeting thunder. He let his chin drop, turned around, faced the sky that's now filled with the dark clouds, though the night was aflare with the might of the thunder. The flare in the night was scary, lightening the world, it was the thunder's nature to be the rebellion in heavens, the wrath towards the dark, loud and sudden. Too weak to maintain that majesty, too strong with the destruction it could cause.

On his tongue the taste of the rain water took the man's thoughts elseware. Soothed him, calmed and cooled his body, washed down his sweat. Now only the loud siren of a hovering ambulance was disturbing him.