‘My Angel and I, in an Alley Laced with Sin’

Graphic by. Alyvia Taylor

She is all that is good in the world. She is light, she is beauty. Her hair is the color of pale sun rays trapped behind the clouds on a breezy spring day. She is honey on your tongue and wind in your hair. Her breath smells of bliss and vanilla, and her soft blue eyes are permanently crinkled with smile. When she walks by, laughter tickles my throat like a thousand butterflies are tapping their papery wings against my skin.

I hate her.

We cross paths frequently, but we never end up at the same destination. Our duties ensure this. While I am usually drawn to the scum of the city— the dim alleys, the rundown little shops, and the houses with broken windows and flickering lights— she usually graces the better half of the city. I’m not sure where exactly she goes, this beautiful girl I pass on Main Street every day. I’m not sure why I care. I shouldn’t, I know. I think it’s forbidden.

You see, while she is everything that is pure and good in the world, I am everything that is the opposite. I taste pain in my throat every day, like a burning ache on the back of my tongue. I like it. My eyes are a deep black, deeper than any mortal shade. I like to think they are full of pain, as neverending as their depths are. I haven’t looked in a mirror in many years, but I know that whereas her face is lined in smile, mine is blotted with shadow. My skin is paler than Death’s— I should know, we’re well acquainted, afterall. Blackened veins press against the thin, pale restraint as though they beg to run free down my arms and drip to the earth below.

Mortals think I’m beautiful, I know. But then, they’ve always been fascinated with the idea of death. I’m not Death, of course. Only a servant to him. But we do look remarkably similar, for what it’s worth.

I’m a demon. As such, I’m destined to walk this cursed city with the mortals every day. I collect one life a day, but only that of the sinful. My brethren each patrol their own city, and each pay the same price for their existence: one soul a day. No more, no less, and only that of the damned. Any others are for the angels to collect. I’m not sure what exactly it is that they do, but I doubt it’s as grim as our work. I do know that there can be no imbalance. We collect one, they collect one. One angel, one demon. One soul a day.

Once upon a time I might have known their work, but millenia have passed since I fell. I lost much that day: my wings, my grace, my purity, my valor. I was left empty, a hollow shell of my former divine self. It is as though all the goodness and light in my body had been scooped out and replaced with something cold and insatiable. Gone, too, are my memories of any life other than the grim one I live now. I’m not sure if the years simply wore my memory away, or if that was scooped out as well.

The girl— the one who reeks of bliss and laughter— is an angel. We’re sworn enemies, each born with a deep hatred for the other.

At least, I think she hates me. Can angels even feel hate? I don’t remember. We’ve never spoken. I have a hard time imagining this raging disgust curling in that beautiful creature’s stomach, though. My own contempt rears its ugly head every time I see her. She is always smiling, always weaving through the crowded downtown streets with a happy bounce in her step. It makes me want to puke.

Today, she ducks into the little bakery across the street. I’ve never been inside, but it looks… cute. The word feels unnatural as it flits across my mind, but it’s accurate. The little building is an old, tan brick build, complete with pale pink tiles across the roof. Warm light glows against the gray drizzle outside. Even from across the busy intersection I can smell the inviting scent of fresh bread and goods.

I hope one of the cement apartment complexes towering over it topples over and crushes it.

I don’t linger to watch for long, though. A familiar, insistent pain on my tongue begs me to turn right, down the darkened alley on the other side of the street. I follow it like a scent, and it tastes sweeter to my senses than the poison of fresh bread had. Today, it pulls me down the dark alley and through the gray puddles forming around the trash piles. I frown and kick at an abandoned glass bottle as I pass. It skitters across the cracked cement and shatters against a wall.

Suddenly, I hear frantic footsteps spring to action in the shadows ahead of me, startled into motion. The pain I am following throbs in response, and I know I’ve found my target. My pace doesn’t quicken to match that of the fleeing man, but the sharp grin that slowly splits my features betrays my excitement nonetheless. I can taste his fear like a sweet wine.

I stalk through the shadows, the slow drizzle of rain masking my footsteps. Pity, I think to myself. I rather like it when my steps echo forebodingly through the dim alley. It makes the fear taste all the sweeter.

My steps never quicken, and my prey’s steps never slow. And yet, he never draws further away from me. He is always as close as I want him. The chase, after all, is the thrilling part. Excitement tingles up my spine when I hear his footsteps stop suddenly. He’s reached a dead end.

I never know where these twisting alleyways will take me, but that never bothers me. I’m content to pursue my victims from afar, letting them choose their fate. Well, kind of— they die no matter which scum-soaked corner they end up in. That part is non-negotiable. But the chase is thrilling, and their growing fear tastes sweet, so I never hurry them along.

Today, the man I’m chasing has chosen a particularly filthy corner to die in. Garbage litters the cracked ground, and the rain puddles look chunky and brown. I wrinkle my nose in disgust. I’m a demon, not an animal.

He is clawing at the cement wall that blocks the alleyway when I approach, but as my shadow falls across him, he turns to face me. He is trembling, his fingernails bloodied from pawing at the wall. I stop my steady approach a few feet from him, and he falls to his knees. Filthy rainwater splashes across my fine black pants, and I grimace.

“Your time has come, my friend.” I say it with a dramatic bow to the dirty man, bending nimbly at the waist. “Lester, is it?”

The name comes to me suddenly, as though I’d seen a familiar face in a movie and been struggling to place it, the name stuck stubbornly on the tip of my tongue. I’ve never seen this man before, though. This doesn’t alarm me. Death works in strange ways, and this is no uncommon occurrence. He makes sure we know what we need to, whether we know we do or not.

“N-no. Please,” he begs. I see deep desperation in his eyes, but it’s no use. Death has sent me, and you can’t plead with Death. “I have a wife. I have kids. I did it for them, I had to!”

I’m not sure what he’s talking about. After so many centuries of collecting souls day after day, week after week, year after year, all the stories blend together. Some cheat, some kill. Most lie or steal. All of them beg. It doesn’t concern me anymore.

I remember back in the beginning, when I was new at the job, I’d listen to every tragic story. Maybe some brute had defiled his wife and the trembling man before me had lashed out to protect his family, pulling a gun on his opponent and splattering his brains on the wall. Maybe he’d simply stolen food to feed them. Once upon a time I would have felt bad. I would have given the man reassurance that he’d done the noble thing for his family, that his passing wouldn’t be painful.

That was a long time ago, though, back when my shoulders still ached with the weight of broken wings and my bones with the pain of a very long fall. Now, I do not care.

I can smell the deceit, though. “You’re lying to me, Lester. You don’t have a wife or kids. You’re just a bad man who’s going to die.” I step closer as I say it, my grin growing wider in the fading light. I grin so wide my lips crack, and I think I can feel blood dribbling down my chin. Or maybe it’s just rainwater.

Lester sinks even lower to the ground. “I had to!” he begs again, a tremor in his voice.

His pleas fall on deaf ears, though. I can sense that he’s accepted his fate. His fear recedes and his whimpering grows quieter. I roll my eyes at that. It’s no fun when they’ve given up.

I crouch to Lester’s level and slowly extend my hand towards his dripping forehead. He flinches backwards, but there’s nowhere to go. “Please,” he whispers one last time as my palm finds his clammy skin.

My eyes flutter closed as soon as we make contact. Pleasure courses through every darkened vein in my body as I feel the life ebb from his body. The sweet taste of blood floods my mouth, and my brain feels alive with electricity. Every nerve in my body aches for more, but within seconds, Lester falls dead at my feet. He is completely drained of life.

I frown as I rise to my feet. His falling body had splashed rainwater onto my shiny oxfords. I try shaking them clean, but they just gather more filth from the air. The pain on my tongue has faded, though, with my task for the day complete. I hope tomorrow the pain leads me to a rich bachelor holed up in a penthouse somewhere on the nice side of town.

As I retrace my footsteps and reemerge on Main Street, I see the sweet angel emerge from the bakery. Against my better judgment, I stop to watch. She is no longer alone. Now, she leads a small girl— likely no older than three or four— through the drizzle. The child clutches a stuffed creature in one small hand and the angel’s finger in another. They are both glowing faintly.

I lean against a nearby light pole as they approach the crosswalk. The little girl urges the angel to stop and wait for traffic, to which the sweet creature complies. I’m not sure why. A truck would pass right through either of them at this point. As the two of them cross the street a moment later, I realize they are approaching me. I pull my jacket tighter around my body, though I’m not sure how I hope it will disguise me.

The little girl drops her stuffed creature. As soon as it leaves her tiny hands it reenters the mortal plane, sending a shower of droplets onto the ankles of the passing crowd. No one seems to notice. The little girl crouches down to pick it up, and, as soon as she touches it again, the creature takes on the glowing hue once more. Though the ugly thing is now soaked in gray rainwater, the child hugs it close to her little body. She is shaking with fear, but the angel smiles reassuringly at her.

Something— some alien emotion, something I haven’t felt in centuries— flickers through me right then. I blink, taken aback. For a moment I could’ve sworn it felt like— well, nevermind. The moment had passed.

As they approach, the angel meets my eyes. I realize she must know who I am. Pity briefly mars her beautiful features, and I’m not sure if it’s for me or the child. I narrow my own soulless eyes as she passes, just in case it was for me. A low growl breaks from my lips, and the little girl flinches backwards.

I should feel satisfaction at that, I know it. And yet, only an ugly feeling balls in the pit of my stomach. I blame the angel. She’s messing with me, I know it. Maybe she doesn’t mean to, maybe it’s just the consequence of being in her presence. I hope so. That would mean I’m likely afflicting her as well. The thought of pain in the mind of that beautiful creature makes me smile.

Over the next several weeks, I realize the girl is a drug. Everyday, after numbing the pain in the back of my throat, I’m drawn to her. Sometimes she sees me watching from afar, sometimes she doesn’t. I’m careful not to get too close again, though. I don’t want her working her Heavenly magic over me again, turning my emotions into strange aches and foreign pains. I like my pain raw and identifiable, like flames eating through flesh.

Eventually, I realize I’m so eager to see the girl that I can’t enjoy the hunt anymore. I find myself jogging after my victims and clapping a hand to their foreheads before they even have time to beg. Sometimes, on the days I’m particularly eager to see her, I don’t even chase my victims. I stalk them through the shadows and loom up behind them like a cobra rearing its head. They are dead before they know why.

I despise her for this.

One day, as I’m waiting outside of a fancy restaurant for my victim to finish his too-expensive meal with his too-cheap company, I see my angel dart inside.

She isn’t dressed for the scene tonight. Her rumpled skirt and mismatched blouse stand out like a sore thumb. No one says anything, though. She’s still the most beautiful creature in there.

I watch as the host seats her at a little table near the window. There are two chairs, but he sets the table for one. The angel doesn’t touch her china, though. She doesn’t even bother ordering food. She just stares out the window with a faraway look in her eyes. I can tell she isn’t looking at anything in this realm.

Before I know what I’m doing, my feet are taking me through the door. The host rushes to greet me, but I step past him without slowing. It’s as though I’m in a trance as I drift over to the angel. I tell myself I’m drawn by her pain, and it might be true.

The pain, I realize as I draw nearer, is two things: unlike anything I’ve ever tasted before and undeniable. It tastes like the kind of pain that torments the mind, not the flesh. I’ve never felt an angel’s mind, I realize. I hadn’t even known angels could feel pain. The flavor that serenades my tongue as I approach her table is ethereal, like honey and maple syrup drizzled over sugar cubes. Mortals’ pain is sweet, too, of course, but it’s nothing like the angel’s pain. Theirs is more like a mild gin.

She doesn’t blink as I seat myself across from her. In fact, she doesn’t so much as turn her head from the window. I’m not sure she even realizes I’m here.

I shake my head at the waiter and he leaves us alone. My victim has disappeared, but I hardly notice.

“You’re hurt,” I say, simply to break the silence. A small shock travels my spine as soon as the words leave my mouth. We’re not supposed to speak with angels. I don’t even know if any demon has ever dared.

“Am I?” she muses without tearing her gaze from that faraway place. “I haven’t been struck.”

I shake my head. “It’s your mind, not your body. Something is weighing on your consciousness.”

“Mm,” she mumbles, more to herself than me. “I’ve never been hurt before.”

I don’t say anything to that, but wave the annoyingly insistent waiter away once more. I do allow him to leave a bottle of wine, though.

“You’re breaking me. I don’t know what it is, but everytime you’re near my body aches with grief. I find I don’t like it.” Her voice is soft and buttery, and she speaks as though she were born in the England of ages past.

I laugh at that, and I realize a part of me shivers with delight at knowing she’s noticed me watching her. But alas, she has it backwards. “No, you hurt me. The bliss you radiate burns my skin as the sun once did.”

A frown crinkles her brow, and she finally tears her gaze from the window. “Can demons not feel the sun?”

I blink. I suppose I hadn’t realized it. “We don’t feel anything. It’s like we’re numb, but without the cold. Our bodies are a blank slate for pain.”

I choose not to mention the strange things the angel makes me feel. They’re foreign and confusing, and I’m not quite certain I like them.

My angel shudders at that. “How awful.” She seems lost in thought for a moment, a faint smile resting on her pink lips. “Being an angel is wonderful. It’s like there’s helium in your lungs and your body is made of paper. Everything feels so light and bubbly.”

Again, I laugh. I may not remember the work of an angel, but I do remember glimpses of what it felt like before I fell, before my wings were torn from my body. The angel has it wrong again. 

“No,” I correct her. “It feels as though you’re suffocating. You’re too full of bliss and bubbles, and the air is too light. You just don’t realize it yet.”

“So it’s true, then. You used to be an angel.”

I nod, dimly amazed at how easily the conversation is flowing. I’m not sure I should be telling her any of this— no, I know I shouldn’t be. But she draws the truth to my lips as though she were drawing the pain from a wound. “I fell a long time ago.”

“Do you miss it?” she asks. A strand of silvery hair falls across her brow, and I resist the strange urge to both vomit and brush it back.

“Sometimes,” I shrug. I’m not sure it’s the truth, but it falls from my mouth before I can ponder it.

Suddenly, I get the urgent itch to leave. This angel is not a friend. She draws me in with her ethereal pain, so sweet on my tongue, then sits there and burns me with her warmth— warmth I shouldn’t even be able to feel. We are immortal, yes, but there are rules. We are not allowed. Besides that, I’ve lost my victim and his sin is becoming a searing headache. If he isn’t collected before the night is done… well, I don’t know what would happen. That’s just the way the universe works: humans sin, demons collect. One a day. No more, no less. No think, just do.

Besides, I like her pain. I have no reason not to.

My angel doesn’t notice as I descend from my stool and make for the door. She is, once again, fixated on something beyond. I don’t know why this makes me so angry, but I feel myself snarling softly when she doesn’t notice my exit.

I avoid my angel for the next several days. I tell myself it’s because she is bad for me. Her infatuating smile torments my mind so much so that I stray from my duties. This is the first torment I can’t enjoy. It burns me to my core, just as her gentle warmth does.

 I can’t stop thinking about her sad eyes. It hadn’t been natural, not on an angel. Angels are creatures of grace and goodness. They help the good people to their next life, hold their hands up to Heaven, I believe. My angel’s pain hadn’t belonged on such a pure creature.

Photo: pxhere.com

Days later, as I’m gently toweling grime off my hands with a silk handkerchief, I’m surprised to see her pale form tiptoe through the shadows of the dirty alleyway. I can smell her fear even from a distance. It’s obvious she shouldn’t be here. Frowning, I follow her from the shadows.

My angel winds through the alleys at random. She certainly draws the attention of the local scum, but no one dares move towards her. They can’t see me, but they sense me. No mortal crosses a demon, not even the stupid ones.

Suddenly, I hear the dim crack of glass underfoot, and she draws in a sharp breath as she falls to one hip. She sits there, whimpering in the dirt for a few moments. I try to revel in it; her pain now is sweet, too, though not as sweet as her sadness had been. There’s something about the pain in the mind that just tastes better.

I find that I can’t enjoy it, try as I might, and again, my feet are moved seemingly by a will other than my own. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m by her side, crouching in the dirt. I hardly notice my clean-pressed pants soiling beneath me.

“You’re hurt,” I say, and a sense of deja vu darts through my mind.

She flinches when she hears me, as though I’ve surprised her.

“You’ve stepped on glass,” I frown, gently turning one of her small feet over in my hands. The shards of a broken bottle jut from her porcelain skin.

She trembles in my hands, and I wonder if my presence hurts her as much as hers does me.

“I’m okay. Only… well, I’m afraid I still don’t quite like pain.” Her lower lip sticks out as she says it, and her brow is furrowed. I laugh. She looks like a child, confused and hurt after having been offered some revolting variety of vegetable.

Concern darts across my mind like a dark shadow, though. I’m fairly certain angels shouldn’t be able to feel pain. At least, not physical pain.

“Do I hurt you?” I ask, my curiosity finally getting the best of me. “When I touch you, does it hurt?” I’m not sure what I hope the answer will be.

She grimaces, though not with pain. Worry flashes across her delicate features. “You used to, back when— well, that’s why I was looking for you.”

“You’ve been looking for me?” I’d been avoiding her specifically so she wouldn’t hurt again. I know what my presence does to mortals. For an angel, it must be agony.

Her words surprise me. “I’ve noticed your presence doesn’t hurt anymore. Well, not as much, anyways. Back when you used to watch me from afar, before the restaurant, it used to feel as though misery lapped at my mind when you drew near. I felt cold and sad, as though I’d never be happy again. Acid filled my veins and— well, I don’t feel it anymore. You still weigh on my mind, certainly, but I find that it doesn’t hurt anymore. It’s not right, not how things are supposed to be. I was worried something had happened to you.”

My mind reels. Why would such a beautiful creature worry for me? “I’m fine. Of course I’m fine. We’re immortal, you know that. Nothing could happen to me.”

She shakes her head, slowly pulling away from me and sitting upright. “Are we? Immortal, I mean?” I laugh, but she cuts me off before I can chide her ignorance. “A demon should hurt an angel. Even being near you should pain me to my core. I know it used to. And you, I know you’re different now, too. You don’t revel in pain and death as you used to… as a demon should. We’re losing ourselves, and I don’t know why.”

I open my mouth to argue, but I realize she’s right. Even now, I’m dreading pulling myself from this conversation to collect my sin for the day. The thrill of the chase has long since abandoned me, ever since I started stalking my angel. Her ethereal beauty had seeped into my mind like a poison, infatuating me as pain once would. This poison of hers, though, was like no poison I’d ever tasted. There was no pain. It felt good and right and pure, as though my heart had filled with happiness once more.

“You think… you think we’re turning into mortals?”

“I don’t know,” she shakes her head, shivering against the cold. I realize the night air does have a bite to it tonight. Regardless, I shed my jacket and drape it around her shoulders.

“Is that even possible?” I press. Is that something I would even want? I yearn to ask instead. It has been eons since I’ve felt anything but pain and death. I don’t even remember what it feels like to revel in things other than fear. I wonder if I’d ever felt anything earlier even, before I was an angel. Had there even been a time before that? Had I ever felt both joy and sadness in the same body? Would I want to?

My angel doesn’t say anything, so I help her to her feet. She can’t put any weight on her injured foot, so I tip her backwards into my arms. I’m not sure where I plan on taking her, but it seems cruel to leave her in the alley among the souls I’m destined to collect.

A short laugh escapes her lips as I do so, and I find myself smiling back. It feels strange on my face, as though I’d strained to hold a fake grin for the camera for a beat too long. I find that I like it, though, after a moment. It feels… good.

We take to meeting in that restaurant week after week, then day after day when that feels like too long between each visit. She makes me laugh more frequently, and, in turn, I make her cry. It breaks my heart to see the tears mar her perfect face, but she assures me that she likes it. It feels good to feel so wholly, she claims. I agree, though I know she’s drawn the short stick.

“You make me feel mortal,” she tells me one day. “No… human. You make me feel human.”

She says it with a shy smile, as though she’s sharing some intimate information. I know she’s right, but I can’t say it back. It doesn’t sit right with me. 

As the weeks blend together, I know that I like what my angel makes me feel. I like the laughter that bubbles so easily to my lips now, the authenticity of my smiles. Sometimes, I think I can feel warm sunlight on my skin. 

And yet, at the same time, I know that she is ruining me. I listen to their stories and weep with them when I go to collect my victims’ souls, and I wait until minutes to midnight to do the deed each night. My angel holds me in her arms afterwards as I tremble. She strokes my fine hair and tells me she forgives me, that she knows I have no choice. She urges me to forgive myself.

I try, but their pain burns as I draw it out through their foreheads now. My veins scream with the weight of their sins, but night after night I’m subjected to their misery. I find that it fills me with anger. All I want is to spend my eternity with my angel, laughing and crying in each other’s arms. I want to feel the sun on my skin and hunger in my stomach. Why should I have to hurt for their sins? These stupid, ignorant mortals who waste their little lives away with lying, cheating, and killing. Why must I suffer for them?

Then, it clicks suddenly one night, as I’m lying there in my angel’s arms, surrounded by broken glass and rusted nails. It’s not the mortals’ fault: for eons I’d done this same excruciating task without so much as a lick of regret. No, I’d had more than that. I’d enjoyed it. I’d reveled in my work. The mortals hadn’t poisoned me against my duties, my angel had. Before her, I hadn’t known happiness. I hadn’t thought about what these mortals were losing: I’d simply taken. Now, the realization that they’d never smile, never feel warm and happy again, fills me every night.

My angel is stroking my hair, and I’m still trembling. I’m trembling for a different reason now, though. I’m not sure why. I know I’m angry with her, but I don’t think that’s what afflicts me so deeply. I think it’s the glass I clutch in my hand, grabbed from the dirty alleyway in a trance.

My angel doesn’t see it, and I don’t want her to. I’m not sure why. I don’t know what I’m doing with it. Instead, I pray that her eyes don’t leave mine. She looks sad tonight. I wish she wouldn’t. I remember when she used to radiate pure joy. Now, when she holds me at night, her heart aches for me.

I find I want to cure her sadness just as much as I want to remedy my own turmoil. I want the angel to smile, and to hold children’s hands as she guides them. I want to taste pain as sweetly as I once did, and to revel in drawing the damned souls from wretched men. I want these things so deeply that my body trembles with longing.

My body acts of its own accord as it buries the shard deep in her chest. The glass is sturdy. This fragment did not come from a discarded bottle. More likely it had come from some distant shattered mirror or window. Maybe it had fallen from one of the apartments above.

She gasps a little, and her eyes widen in innocent shock. I’m still shaking, but I shift as she slowly releases her hold on me. I shift so I am holding her now, in the dim light of the alley. She curls her small body against mine, pressing herself tight against me.

“I had to,” I whisper into her hair. The words are unsteady as they leave my mouth. I find that my cheeks are wet with tears. “I had to make it stop. The agony, the longing, the sin… night after night we suffer. I had to end our misery.”

A small smile graces her lips briefly, a smile laced with pain. “I know. I’m sorry.”

I follow her beautiful blue eyes to see what she is sorry about. My own eyes widen in horror at what is happening before me:

My skin had always been pale, nearly translucent, even. Now, it darkens slowly, starting at my fingertips. The darkness spreads through my limbs like a disease, creeping slowly over my cold flesh.

“What’s happening to me?” I sob, though I’m not sure if it’s for me or my angel.

“There can’t be an imbalance,” she explains through shallow breaths and fading words. “Neither Heaven nor Hell can gain the upper hand. When an angel dies, so must a demon.”

I watch in horror as the darkness grows blacker and blacker until my skin begins to crumble away like ash in the wind. I wish my hands weren’t the first to go. I want to hold my angel. Alas, the disease creeps from my fingertips and down my arms, snaking swiftly across my pale chest.

“We’re mortal.” It’s not a question. The pain that now racks her frail body is proof enough: no immortal should be able to feel pain of the flesh.

“Our love—” she gasps, but can’t finish the sentence. The agony that leeches the blood from her veins is too great. 

She doesn’t have to, though. I know it as well as she: our love has ruined us.

I gasp suddenly. It feels as though an immense weight has been lifted from my chest— no, more than that. It feels as though a deep pressure has been lifted from every atom of my being.

“All my life,” I murmur, collapsing next to my angel, “I’ve never known. I’ve been in pain this whole time, and I’ve never known.”

It’s true. As I lay dying next to my angel in the grime of an alley laced with sin, I know it is. It feels as though the acid has been drained from my veins and the weight of my broken wings lifted from my back.

I lace my crumbling fingers through hers, and she squeezes my hand. I know in that moment that she is not mad at me, nor am I at her. We were losing ourselves. We’d become some abomination stuck between immortality and mortality, between Heaven and Hell. What we had become was impossible and cursed, some shell of our former selves: an angel who cries and a demon who cares.

As midnight hits our little town, we die together, my angel and I.