Picture an angel, now remove the halo, perhaps even the wings should not be in sight. She was not customarily dressed in white, instead picture rags, tattered and torn, and deliciously comfortable. Instead of hair that float on by, picture anger and frizz as dark as the night and as dense as the forest. There was no indelible sparkle of a jenniah under her eye, no radiating beauty of Aphrodite, just a little coffee foam unceremoniously smeared under her lip. There were no trinkets, no diamonds just an ill-fitting watch belonging to her father on her wrist. The music of the heavens did not play in the background as she glided, Instead Raw Power played loud and off-key even as she lay on the floor, maybe it was the music of the heavens after all.
Anyhow, picture an angel.
Now picture a demon, at the epitome of fiendish evil. Excise the horns for he had none, no tail or talons of steel either. The colour of blood, you’d think he would have worn but he was dressed in neat, crisp white as he always was. His eyes held no cold, hostile wrath instead there was depth, amusement and compassion. The raging melodies of hell did not play in his ears, instead Pavarotti he closed his eyes to as relief and leisure washed over him.
So, picture a demon.
The key turned in the lock, and the demon walked into the angel’s less than perfect abode, drinking in the mess with his eyes and adjusting to the vast change in music. In summary of a long winding discussion that ensued, I could tell you this demon cared naught for mess or disobedience. The little angel, exceptionally daring, insisted on asserting her own claim over her own domain. With that began what could be described as a fight, albeit one sided. She raged and raged, doing things she never would, her petulance quelling deeper as he refused to engage. Her anger brought her before him, banging her wrists unceasing into the bed he sat on. She was begging for a reaction but all she got was an amused smile and a gentle caress on her cheek. Pushed further, she slapped his hand away and she prepared to rise, yet she was incapacitated by her nemesis that she saw conceived in his eyes. With the manner of a solider; unquenchable rage in his heart, undeniable strength in his hands, irrefutable fairness in his mind, unnecessary chivalry in his actions and unbelievable control in his manner, he rose.
The angel whose blood turned cold, the angel whose heart was beating in her mouth, the angel whose digits ached in arousal, the angel in the wake of devastation did not dare turn a hair anymore, did not dare move an inch. She closed her eyes and wished she would vanish but her body which she was much too aware of was squirming from the stimulation of the palpable tension.
Hours later, the door closed and locked behind itself as he walked out of her house, leaving her lying alone and perfectly still against the cold floor of her now tidy home. She could not remember the last time she had been handled the way she was. Raising her still crimson and swollen palms to sight she rubbed them together savouring the ache of relief. She glanced at the bowl of ice he had left lying beside her before he had walked out without a word. How considerate. She picked up an ice cube and raised it to her lips, letting the water spill on her face and chest, she rubbed it on her flaming cheeks and ran her fingers around the swollen curve of what used to be her face. Picking up another she set to work on her feet, legs and back, feeling each wound in its entirety, not caring for it or tending, really, just nurturing the evidence of his justice on her body.
She stood up, still unsteady pulled on a flaming red shirt which despite its noxious pigment was put to shame by the angry colours of her skin. Striking a match and inhaling the sulpher with systematic deliberation, she lit the cigarette placed between her now scarlet lips, and gazed at the image of the little girl up on the wall; White dress, perfect hair, magnificent wings and of course, the music of the heavens.