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Twisted, corrupted and hurt, the flow of time stopped, froze in place and kept going. What is tomorrow if today you had made a bunch of friends and gone on a walk across the town, what is yesterday, nonexistent yet so clear in your mind, if tomorrow is better? Days that felt like days, days that felt like years, all intertwined like cats' tails, glued together by your saliva and sweet cherry-like tree resin. Time kept going, and along with it they went, dressed in robes, hands held in prayer.
You come with the ringing of church bells and an exhausted huff of the cooling system, and the world gets stained beautiful vibrant red of your holy presence, and His hands get stained vibrant red and His face and His thoughts and
You see Him in the reflection on the blue still water, you hear Him in the rustle of the pink leaves bothered by the playful wind, you feel His breath on your back in the light breeze, you taste His blood in a cup of hot chocolate. His words are TV static, a broken, mutilated, butchered whisper tasting of sparkling water, and your ears bleed when you hear Him speak, your head spins, and you see stars.
The ancient texts lied, and so did the words secretly whispered in the closure of the holy place into someone's ear, because your existence is the worst blasphemy of them all, a vantablack rot that corroded His brain and left Him like this, left Him irreparably broken and unsteady on His feet, left Him, left Him, left Himleftleftleftleft
Your voice is the sound of flies buzzing out of tune near the yellowed office lamps, but you say such beautiful things with it He cannot even believe. They look at you —no, not at you, but at your living gloomy skin that dared to keep its God like a pet songbird, and they smile, and they say it's great; their eyes are closed, blind to your holy light that's burning Him alive. But you don't need it. No one needs it. No one needs you.
There was once a time when time was measured by the number of days to the festival, and those days had nights darker than dark, longer than the time itself. And, oh, how good those days were, when even the ocean couldn't do anything but sing! Defeating an evil king or walking down the city full of flashing lights and colourful billboards, playing a game from the past while the audience cheers until their throats feel raw — you wish you could keep them forever, locked to your heart like a keychain.
Sometimes He thinks He is sick. There's a cancerous tumor growing somewhere inside His chest that sprouts its roots in His brain and spine, sucking His blood and sanity dry. He doesn't remember what His face used to look like, for now it's a tangled mess of squares of white and black held together solely by pure luck, but He remembers the way your lips parted when you said your name.
(it rings in His head like a never-ending phone call)
Ringringring
...
In the end, there were no good people nor bad people. There were only the weak and strong. The weak in the heart, the stupid in the head, the dull-witted, the uneducated, the helpless, the ungrateful and the untempted.
It wasn't fair that you were forced to deal with the obtuse. It wasn't your fault that they believed themselves to be better than you, better than the Angel yourself, and it wasn't your fault when they were met with consequences of their folly. You owed them nothing. They said you owed them everything.
He, as any gentleman would, did not consider Himself someone lacking a clear mind or desirable intelligence, and this might have been the reason why the way they treated you made His throat itch with ironic laughter. Foolish, foolish, foolish and pitiful they were, blind to your beautiful holy gaze! Not people — decorations which would be a joke to call alive! Such beings as you must have been worshipped, not shoved away in the closet like an unwanted toy. And He worshipped you. Oh, how He worshipped you, in preorgasmic thrill that bordered on madness, foam coming from His mouth and rot leaking from His brain, an erection rubbing against the fabric of His clothes and hands shaking. He needed you until you were the only thing in the world.
"TELL ME... ANGEL," He whispers, His voice is a jolt of electricity that's making your body spasm, a small tingle on the tip of your tongue, "WHAT HAVE... YOU DONE TO... ME?"
The only thing you see is a cutout photo slapped on a cathode screen, an unintelligible kaleidoscope in black and white shrieking with white noise, an alcoholic smell of rotten cherries that's choking you to death. You desired Him so badly. A mystery unravelled, a cathartic grand finale. You wanted Him until you weren't able to think. Decades of searching kept in a jar.
You desired Him until there was nothing left.
You snap His neck, pulling an electric plug out of the outlet.