Behind the fragile curtain of human perception, free from the cramped dimensions of Earthly space, a figure moves, menacing and silent.

  It strides from the back of the spare bedroom toward Pete Bishop, who sits in his desk chair. Moving in confident stealth, lingering only briefly, to glance at Natalie Bishop, working in her closet. "I wonder if he’ll kill her on his way," the figure muses. "They do flail so as they shatter. Like drowning victims.” The assassin smiles. “And there are few things as dangerous as a drowning man.”

  Nevertheless, before it can indulge its morbid curiosity, Abaddon has a task to complete.

  Abaddon of the Fallen. Prince of Hell. Mindbreaker.. Now, and long since, cast down from the presence of The One.

  He is tall. Tall enough that his cloak-covered head nearly reaches the ceiling. That cloak, a deep crimson, spilling down to the floor, covering boots of tarnished silver. The sleeves conceal his arms giving way to long white fingers tipped with long black nails. Ancient hands, almost translucent. And like those hands, his face has a pale, sullen visage. Sunken eyes. A long nose. The only sign of life is the arrogant smile that forms on his black lips.

  The “Mindbreaker” who loves his work, looking upon his objective with contempt.

  It is common knowledge beyond the mortal realm, that each man, woman, and child carries within them an “anchor,” so to speak. A singular subconscious awareness of their connection to the One. The lone point of knowledge from which originates a person’s ability to process all things.

  To see this anchor, or as many call it, “The Light” in the three-dimensional world, is impossible. For Abaddon, however, it is quite literally a light radiating from the center of the mind.

  The old demon concentrates, focusing on Pete’s Light as shadows pull inward from the walls.

  Suddenly several luminescent rectangular outlines appear before him. Hovering and moving, different sizes and levels of brightness.

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  Abaddon extends a pointed nail, inspecting each one.

  “Show me?” He whispers, meticulously sorting through the shapes. “Show me your pain.”

  A moment passes in eerie silence before one of these “Doors” abruptly stops and expands before him. It grows to massive dimension, standing directly between Pete Bishop and his destroyer, granting plenty of space through which…to strike.

  “Ahhh.” The demon exhales, satisfied. “There you are.”

  Abaddon moves in closer. His hand lowering to his waist as he angles his body for a killing blow.

  In that hand, a shape begins to materialize. Ethereal at first, hard to define. Though as he turns his face to the ceiling, a wispy black mass takes the form of a massive war hammer. Large and symmetrical, the stone blunted and squared on both ends. And from the bottom of the hammerhead, a rod of onyx, extending three feet to a black handle.

  With the weapon fully manifested and Pete’s “Door” identified, Abaddon, utters one final word:

  “Coward.”

  He closes his eyes, raising the hammer with both hands, high behind his shoulder. Arms phasing through the ceiling as though it doesn’t exist at all. Then the eyes open, flashing with wild brilliance as his smug smile becomes a manic grin.

  The moment has come.

  Abaddon twists his body in a flurry. Turning with speed and torque enough to split a mountain. His pale hands gripping tight as he rips his long arms through the air. For a brief moment, the room, the town, the whole world holds its collective breath. And then…

  Devastation!

  The hammer fall crashes into the center of Pete’s Light. The violence reverberating throughout the Kaleidoscope. The luminous object explodes in all directions as if a grenade made of glass. Sound, like thunderclap fills the apartment while Abaddon settles and gazes upon his terrible work. The deed is done.

  But with the shards of Light fizzling out into nothingness, something else can be seen inside of Pete’s mind: a spinning collection of golden threads, illuminated residually. Fast-revolving bundles of gold that are Pete’s conscious thoughts, feelings, and instincts.

  They appear much like a spinning “Wreath”.

  The destruction of Pete’s Light will soon cause these golden threads to spin in an ever-increasing imbalance, eventually losing all center and unraveling as he descends into total madness.

  For Abaddon, these fleeting moments, (during which his victim desperately and frantically tries to make sense of what is happening) are always the sweetest. To watch as they inevitably claw their way to self-destruction. The sad, pathetic final act of a lesser lifeform.

  He smirks, awaiting the familiar.

  And as predictable as the tides, the man’s face slackens, eyes growing wide.

  “I hope it doesn’t take too long.” Abaddon says watching Pete Bishop escape to the bathroom. “Something about the wife bothers me.”