Chapter Text
In the quiet, misty morning, before even the sparrows start singing, a dark figure hastily runs between the dirty back alleys of London. Dogs bark excitedly, picking up the figure's scent, tails wagging fast, and letting the policemen know they are close. The figure fumbles, pulling down the hood attached to the dark gray cloak drenched in blood. As the hood falls, dark purple hair falls perfectly onto the shoulders of the tall young man. His face was quite handsome, with sharp features, though his eyes, oh, his eyes, showed a small, scared boy. Making him almost baby-like.
The man ripped off the cloak, laying over a large pile of human waste, attempting to make it look like a body underneath. Tears glisten on top of the blood-covered cheeks from what's left of the moon, heading on its way to bed to let the rays of the sun wake up the city of London. Hearing the dog's bark ring closer, he speeds up, running until he finds himself facing a large Catholic cathedral. The beauty of the church standing in the night slightly makes his jaw drop. Large, multi-colored glass windows depict stories found in the Bible. Stone bricks lightly covered in vines climb the foundation of the church.
His feet unconsciously walked through the gates, brushed every so slightly with dew. Only the soft thud of his boots as he walks along the stone path can be heard throughout the grounds. The man finds himself reaching for the door handle, but stops when he realizes what he's doing. Slowly, he retraces the path leading to the church until he stops at the gate. He turns around once more to stare at the cathedral, taking in its beauty.
Flashbacks appear in his brain of the times he grumbled about going to church with his father and mother. Dragging his feet and mindlessly fidgeting during the sermon. The punishment he endured for acting like Heathan Every single lash from his father's Sunday Best, brown leather belt makes him shudder, despite summer being in its prime. Tears and screams echo, bouncing off every corner of his brain. His mother begging her husband to stop hurting her youngest son. Only after she tried to interfere did he stop. Pieces of the boy’s skin stuck now to the belt, the tip dripping into a small pile of blood on the floor. Heavy breaths fill the room, yet he still never listened and endured it even after his mother's passing.
“Look at me now,” he whispers. “A mere murder in awe of something so pure. Mother is most definitely rolling uneasily in her grave.”
The familiar sting of his attempt to hold back tears plagues his very being. His legs give out, and he weeps at the gates of the church. Loud sobs now fill the air as he breaks down completely. His head spun in a never-ending loop of guilt. Only God knows how long he wept there as time flashed by. The sun slowly emits a red light into the clear sky. Provoking the man to sit up and look around. Off into the distance, he sees a light floating. He rubs his eyes, but they are still there and appear to be moving. Soon, the light has a figure accompanying it. A policeman with a lantern. Panicking, he stands up and runs back down the stone path up onto the stairs, and once again reaches for the door handle of the church. His hand meets the cool metal of the handle, and he pauses for a moment.
His mind in a battle over whether to turn himself in or be on the run. As he battles his choices, the police chief spots him and yells. Immediately, he ignores the conflict and runs into the church until he trips on the dark red rug, flying to the foot of the altar. He hears the sounds of the policemen getting closer to the cathedral doors. He finds himself grabbing the golden cross which stands in the middle of the altar.
The dried blood on his hands stains the gold, and now with fresh blood, he takes it and stabs his leg over and over again. Trying to find some sort of release. When that doesn't help, he positions it over his heart and deeply stabs his chest when the windows of the church crack and go flying into the air, the doors lock, and the room fills with smoke. He looks at the cross and sees his reflection and a dark, tall figure with wings. His mouth opens to let out a scream, but a bright light blinds him, a soft hand covers his mouth, and another grabs the cross from his hand. The room becomes cold, and still not even a shadow creeps upon the walls. The smoke clears, and in front of him lie two winged beings: an angel and a demon.