Dustin LaValley
Artwork by Chris Cartwright.

-For JNT

In a musty attic the flame from a single candle contorts her shadow along the slanted walls. It dances wildly -rising and falling, twisting and twirling- to a silent beat. She sits on a decrepit mattress -stained and soiled, torn and lumpy, its springs sprouting from its sides, tiny white feathers scattered about- waiting for him.

She looks beautiful in her unblemished pale skin and graceful golden hair. Her pierced lips pink and plump and eyes a pure shade of blue. She's petite and thin, almost child- sized. Her small, frail white wings flutter nervously every few moments. Tears wander down her cheeks, streaking her skin with a slick gleam, and fall from her chin, dampening the mattress.

She is not the first. He has done this before. Stolen others while they sought to mend his soul in times of utter despair. Manipulating the principle of their existences. He finds solace in what he gathers. But it does not ever last. When the bliss dies, and oblivion consumes him, he beckons for another beauty with the cure.

The door opens slowly and his form slips through the darkness. He drifts towards her emotionless. He cannot illustrate emotions, his face has no features; he contains neither personality nor individuality, he is plain and vacant. The darkness is his shroud. It fits him flawlessly.

Her eyes remain on the damp stain of her tear collection. There are no pleading words from her mouth; she does not make a sound as he kneels behind her. He wraps a strong arm around her chest and slides his fingers up her torso, slowly, gently. When he reaches her breast, he circles a pierced nipple lightly with a single finger and begins to caress her neck with the smooth flesh upon his face. He cups her breast and withdraws his face and she feels the sharpness of a blade slid down her back. Her mouth opens with the pain, but no sound emerges. Her eyes close tight in search of refuge. The cold metal leaps off her skin and then quickly replants itself to the opposite side of her spine, where it drags to the end of her wing.

They release easily from her insides, clumps of dark-red tissue and stringy veins contort and snap and fall while driblets of blood trickle along her back.

He stands and walks casually out of the candlelight to become swathed by darkness, securely hugging the wings to his chest as if they could fly away from him. The angel opens her eyes to witness his desertion, reaching over her shoulder with a convulsing hand to finger her wounds.

He leaves the door open. Knowing she will not try to leave. They never try to leave. She has no reason to without her wings. No reason to without her essence.