Santiago backed away. His mind raced with images of death, bloodsheds, tears and guilt on faces of people he does not recognize. He backed away from the letter, further and further. The images did not stop. They flooded his brain. His soul was being plagued with these images. He closed his eyes hoping they would go away but they did not, they became more horrifying and he was forced to open his eyes. The nightmares were all of a sudden very real. There were people everywhere. They were dressed in white…faces color drenched…lifeless eyes. They were the abandoned angels. He was surrounded in a sea of white. There were not only adults. There were children, hundreds of them, more than he could possible imagine, all dressed in white. Every one of them was watching two figures ahead of them… figures clothed entirely in red. The two figures just stood straight ahead of him and stared at Santiago like a statue. Nothing moved. No sound made. Next to him an albino child was praying, moving his lips, quietly forming his prayer, asking god for forgiveness, for mercy. The scene was haunting. He wanted to escape but he knew it was not possible. For a moment he closed his eyes again, and like a magnet he was attracted to the door that had reappeared behind him. His hands were then pinned perpendicular to the door and his legs forming an upside down “v” against it. He opened his eyes and saw the two red figures still standing in the same position. He tried to move but it was no use. The people around him were drawing around the two figures in red as if they were possessed. Frozen in the same position, he was forced to watch the crowd. The puppets and their masters stood still for what seemed like hours to look at him. They slowly started to turn their heads, except now the pale faces of the entire crowd was covered in crimson liquid. The little albino boy looked into his eyes, the same shade as the liquid on his face. They burned into him, warning him. This little boy, he saw everything in him. The red orbs were filled with satisfaction. He felt sharp strokes of pain coursing through his still body as He clenched his fists to stop himself from crying out in pain. He looked down his body. He had been slashed everywhere but no blood had come out. His white suit were spotless and his white shoes still shinning. There was no blood on the ground either. He looked up and realized that the crimson liquid that covered the faces of the crowd was probably his blood. The door suddenly disappeared; he fell to the ground hunched over and in pain but now free to move. He saw that the red leaders were now looking at their feet holding swords covered in blood. They had cold smiles on their faces, looking satisfied. Something seemed to lie at the feet of the red leaders.
He felt the anger radiating from the red leaders as he slowly made his way to where they stood. His breathing became worst and but he stayed composed and upright, trying to hide the pain, the discomfort and the fact that the crowd intimidated him. He was scared. When he reached the crowd, he pushed his way through them one by one. He finally reached the two red leaders and followed their gaze to where a body lay at their feet looking familiar. Santiago felt a cloud of sadness hover over him as he thought it may be someone he loved. He bent over and turned the dead body that lay faced down on the dirt covered ground. At that moment he was paralyzed. The body was not someone he loved. It was him. His once handsome visage was now severed, swimming in blood. It was the same crimson blood that covered the faces of the sea of white that was surrounding him. The two figures now looked at him, holding long bloody swords in their hand and looking even more cold and emotionless than the fallen angels. In a split second, like fog lifting off of his vision, the faces of the strangers seemed clearer with details. But they were not strangers. The two figures in the red were two of his friends, the Vicario brothers. Most of the faces that met his were people he knew or loved. He felt betrayed and disgusted. Santiago tried to stand up but both brothers drove their bloody swords through his back. He cried out in agony but again no blood came out. Santiago ran out of energy but he still struggled to stand up. The crowd watched him agonize and did not help him. After a few minutes they all started walking away from him.
The man dressed in white now lay in the middle of the dirty field covered with his own blood, as the heavens cried out in pain over the loss of a hero. The fallen hero who was betrayed by everyone he knew, everyone that had the power to help him failed. Tears poured down from heaven, the cold body lay on the grass as day gave into the night and the ice cold tears tortured the already dead body to another painful death.
