Fallen Angel : Exodus

She paced and paced on, her feet leaving a trail of bloody footprints on the chiseled concrete stones below. Once in a while, a few new droplets of blood would trickle down her back and soak the white silken dress she so loved.

But it was worth it; every last drop.

She set eyes upon the path of dried up blood behind her; not too far away, the gate of the graveyard stood still partly shut, the way she had left it. Feathers lay here and there; some rested peacefully on the tombs. Most of them were already scattered by the gentle midnight breeze: her wishes and vows to the dead she would one day belong among.

She smiled. Her hand reached out and her fingers met with another silken feather. With a momentary pause, she plucked it out.

A sharp pain. A droplet of blood.

The feather was already on the ground and still she paced on.

On the other side of the graveyard waited he who she had entrusted her last hopes on; the one she was sacrificing her paradise for with every lost feather. For the Eternal, seeing how desperate she grew with every passing millennia of loneliness, gave her the Ultimate Choice: leave eternity for love.

Her choice awaited. She should hurry.

Glancing upon the graves, the names, the ages, she felt a sudden rush of emotion swelling inside her; all these people had loved and had been loved in return. Their mortality granted them the opportunity to fall in love and end up broken-hearted. Maybe she would feel that complete devastation one day…

It was worth the trial.

She had to shed her plumage first, every last feather that grew on her pearly white wings. Angels, you see, come with several assets indicating their immortality; let wings be the essential.

The pain was almost excruciating, numbing her senses, for it was the pain of losing her purity; her inner God. Her wings, once strong and proud, now hang lifeless from her shoulders as if they knew of her betrayal and abandon.

But she cared not.

She plucked another feather out and smiled despite –or maybe due to- the pain. Her dress whispered on the stones, her feet scraped the cracks between them.

It would be a long, long way to the Exodus.

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Name our angel as you please. In my mind, she's Lyria, and we might see her again, soon. Short stories is my cup or tea... :) They help me express my thoughts on a matter, events of my life or simply be creative and let my imaginary world take over.