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He was nervous; apprehensive. The poor boy wouldn’t stop shaking. And when he blushed, the room lit up a startling scarlet, to the extent that you felt your eyes burn; shrinking away from the stark light. Hiding behind his wavy locks, he was a startled fawn in a den of tigers.

So she took him in. With coercing and coddling, he would come to his angel, with stuttering tales of awkward incidents and flustered pauses which spoke more than his words. He would come to her, in a way that no one else would. Like she was a light and he the moth, flinching in the heat of the all-encompassing flame. Her silken wings wrapped around his malnourished form, the ultimate comfort.

Soon opening up was no problem at all. The problem was his own problems. Anxious and unstable, he would call up to the sky each night, calling for her help, the help only she can give, he would mumble, I need you here.

She would consider, debate, contemplate. Should she go?

Could she be the mother to this trepidatious lamb, a learned but very much timid creature, who knew so much of the world, and yet so little than it made her heart throb. He knew her as his virtuous protector, and yet she felt the blackness of her heart, throbbing and sweltering under her white, dewy skin.

When the stars rose in the sky, they would talk of this and that, things and nothings. She was not overly fond of company, but he was so happy, the way his face would lighten up and how he would hug her so softly, so fondly.

In that selfish way, she would feel loved.

She fed off his love, until her blood pumped ebony through those aliceblue veins.

She was his angel, the true beacon of kindness and hope. She could do nothing wrong.

Until that corrupted, forbidding daemon arrived. And he told of all the sinful acts she had committed.

And he would sit there. Listening.

Word

 By

 Word.

And he would notice the light around her beginning to fade.

And she would notice the shine in his eyes beginning to fade.

Then he would leave, disappointed, disgusted. That even such a monstrous thing exists, he would say, is a crime against nature.

And her ivory, porcelain wings, held up by fragile tape and glue, would crumble.


 

I hope you enjoyed the story!

You can read the rest of my fiction here!

Copyright © 2016 Rebecca Sherratt

 

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