Guy (lastyesterday) wrote in creativerity,

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Black Wings

He laid a hand on his troubled head and drew his knees into his chest, perched on the desk. Gun in hand. The white walls had portholes of pictures strewn around like reasons to live. The curtains were drawn and the door locked, wooden tracks were veins that ran down the length of the oak exit.
“So let me get this straight.” He said raising his head to a slant.
“You’re here to make the world right and good again?”
Strapped to a chair opposite him was an angel with huge, black ragged wings that twitched with every hoarse, beaten breath the angel swallowed and spat out.
“It was never right. Or good. I’m here to create a new world. A better world.” Said the angel with difficulty; his brutalised face stared at the gunman with black eyes that were dead to his face. The angel’s hair was matted and bloody, far from angelic.
“So you came to me,” He pointed at himself with the gun inquiringly. “For help?”
“Yes. Stitchlip, I don’t know what’s happened but you’ve become something…”
“Evil?” He filled in with a rye smile.
“Helpless” Corrected the angel with a shudder and shake of his wiry wings. A black feather fell out and twisted through the air, and landed with the other casualties of flight.
“I just don’t understand.” He said as fresh blood crept out the corner of his mouth.
Stitchlip stood up, he seemed as if on strings. He looked weightless and poetic in his movements as he glided over to the angel he rested a hand on his shoulder. The winged seraph never removed his eyes from stitchlips’; He inclined his head and whispered.
“Now feel reality.” Stitchlip hit him for the life he’s led, throwing the angels head back and flicked blood over the wall behind him.
“Hurts, doesn’t it?”
The angel tried to create energy in his hands but he was tired and wounded and he felt his wings burn. He let his head fall limp on his neck and his bound arms bled for the restraints were cutting into him. Stitchlip was pacing the room in front of the angel. He spun with grace and sat upon his desk again.
“Did God send you?”
“Yes. God thinks there is world enough to salvage amongst the carnage.” Replied the angel in a remorseless, indifferent tone. “Stitchlip, why do you hold me here? Why do you feel hate for God?”
“So God thinks the world isn’t a lost cause. And now, after thousands of years of destruction he has decided to give humans just one last chance?” He said with malice on his tongue.
“I am not a one man army. More will follow.” So this is the reconstruction of the world: a flow of angels to plug the wounds that have been opened.
“God is real.” Stitchlip laughed out. “I always thought he was just a scare tactic.”
“If it’s been thought, it exists.” Replied the angel, now raising his bruised face again to meet his. “You will pay for your sins. The world will rise to meet heaven and a bridge will be built.” His words carved nightmares out of the air for Stitchlip, he held his head where the lurid dreams were erupting then fell to the floor. The angel just watched him writhe in the terror and the pain. Stitchlip span up from the floor and struck the angel in the face again knocking him and the chair down. Stitchlip picked him back up from the floor and they were face to face. Not even air between their heads. Only hate.
“What are you?” The angel said as Stitchlip imagined biting his face and crushing his windpipe and tearing his wings apart and destroying this beauty.
“What am I? What am I? I am the troubled kids. I am the problem with society. I am the rise in population and fall of gods. I am the pollution that chokes the world.” Stitchlip was energetically creating scenes of devastation with the motions of his hands. The gun was still clenched tightly in his fist.
“WHO ARE YOU?” The angel screamed.
“I am Seb.” He raised the gun and shot the Agent of heaven in the skull. Its head flew back throwing blood over the walls and spattered on Seb’s apathetic face. He held the smoking gun motionless for a time. For a small eternity the grey air crept out, twisting and somersaulting from the barrel. Then he lowered the gun and stood over the angel’s body, blood pooled around his space-black wings. A crimson tide washed over Sebs feet. His voice was cracked and lips were stitched.
He scrambled over to the door and fumbled for the handle. He swung open the door and stopped short of leaving. Beyond that room, nothing existed. A white wash of infinity. Not even a star could be seen in the endless nothing. Seb turned back to his room-turned-cage and collapsed to the floor, through the curtains he could make out the same indescribable nothing that stretched on forever. He looked down at the angel who was smiling in death. And the air that didn’t subsist tasted stale and everlasting. And he was forever forgotten as the boy who destroyed the world.
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