Writing: Killing Angels

I step hesitantly into an expanse of a room. The porous concrete floor grates harshly against my naked feet, the dry and withered threshold, unmaintained for millennia, splinters and pierces my delicate hands. I cast my gaze towards the center of the room and behold twenty or thirty beautiful angels sleeping soundlessly and without movement. Each and every figure wore the same disgustingly stained linen dress. Their faces looked away from me; I wouldn’t have been able to tolerate even a moment’s glance into those hollow, unmoving eyes.

I take another step forward, the small fleshy patter of my heel soundless against the cold ground. Every nerve in my lower back screams synchronously, “you’re dying.” I hear them so clearly. I heard them like you might still hear your mother’s voice when you haven’t seen a face in a year. I heard them like you might hear the fracturing of your own skull under a large man’s boot. An angel stood immediately to the left of the doorway, their knife twisting into my abdomen.

I step hesitantly into an expanse of a room. The reek of piss and shit envelopes my senses. My eyes water. I can’t help but cry. I’m holding a gun; at least I believe what I am holding is a weapon. Aiming the weapon directly at the center of the filthy rag at my left I feel something happen. A firm paste the color of canned refried beans seeps into the cloth. I feel it wiggle around my foot. I fall to my knees and vomit. My hands are unrecognizable.

Meekly standing up, I use my fingers to comb my hair back again on my head. I take another step forward. There is a sheer drop amounting to ten or twenty feet. Knowing already that there is no choice, I elect to fall. Beginning at my right heel, shooting through my pelvis, and finally feeding directly into the nape of my neck I feel the nerves cry out again. I hear screaming. Another angel stands at my right. Their brass blade effortlessly slides into my ribcage. I can’t lift my arms any longer.

His gaze passes through me. His shredded face is filled with boredom. His gaunt cheeks reveal abscesses the size of apples, exposing a foreign and revolting black tongue. There is nothing behind those frozen eyes. I collapse helplessly from his unmoving caress.

I step hesitantly into an expanse of a room. “I can’t do this anymore,” I plead. I rest on my knees and begin to pray. Screaming envelops me.

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