X-Men Imagines {REQUESTS OPEN!!}

The Death of An Angel

Before any of y'all say anything, i know, this is not an x-men oneshot, i know, disgraceful, i'm just kind of proud of this, i wrote it from a little prompt thing i got off of tumblr, i just want to share it with you guys and i hope you aren't too mad at me for not posting or anything, ive been really busy lately and i know you guys might not be too happy that this isn't x-men, but just, forgive me. also this was totally a clickbait title, you're welcome

 I woke up, groaning and sitting up kind of hastily, my arm hurt quite a bit that morning. It was quite normal for me, I always woke up with small cuts and bruises. My friends were always a little concerned for me with all of the cuts, thinking I might be having problems in my life.

Most of the time, I just ended up telling myself and all of my friends that they were because of me kicking and flailing around in my sleep and accidentally scratching myself.

The air smelled like dog, to be specific, since we had two tiny dogs which tended to smell, well, like dog. They got baths every week, but they didn't help that much.

I yawned, stretching and checking myself for any new cuts, there was one new one, which I expected. I was 18, and almost out of the house, but everything seemed scary out there and I just happened to be very attached to my parents. They protect me as best they can, even though sometimes they don't do too good of a job.

There was a cut on my left arm, it wasn't that deep, but it was still a cut that randomly appeared on my skin.

I had decided quite a bit before that that it couldn't be a coincidence. It just couldn't be. There was no fucking way. My skin was scarred from the constant wounds, but I didn't mind, for all I knew, they meant nothing. They meant nothing to me. Well, maybe that's a lie.

I got out of my pajama clothes and into my school clothes, wearing long sleeves and putting a bandage on my wound so that there's no chance of it bleeding through my shirt or bleeding at all.

School was boring, since it was the middle of January and nothing interesting, everybody was in some kind of winter depression. The only thing that was slightly interesting was maybe art because the focus was more on wings and feathers. I loved feathers and the way they looked and the looks of angels. They were so heavenly and some were depicted as beautiful, while others were not so beautiful, but so what? They're still beautiful. I walked my way home, not having a car or anything like my classmates or normal people my age. Walking was more fun for me and I was able to have more control on where I'm allowed to go. I could see more if I was walking than driving, and driving is scary but that's a different story.

I ate my usual macaroni and cheese for dinner, since my mother was working night shift at the hospital that night and my dad was an absolutely horrible cook, so we settled for mac n' cheese, which is easy and pretty damn tasty.

Mom was away from home a lot at her nursing job, so I spent a lot of time with him rather than her. He told me stories of the fantasy worlds and the angels, sometimes making things up in his own head and other times reading out of storybooks. It was his passion to write his own books, though he never had too much time to do that.

I loved his stories when I was a child, though I still loved them as a technical adult. They were interesting and I knew he had trouble with the names, so I helped him make them up.

After dinner and an episode or two of one of my shows on Netflix, and then I drifted off to sleep, even though it wasn't that easy, I was never one to sleep well.

The sleep was dreamless, when they used to be full of childlike dreams and wonders, but when I woke up that Saturday, I found something that freaked me the fuck out.

The first thing I felt was pain, everything felt hot, I tried to sit up, but I couldn't, it hurt too much. I gasped for air and looked down, that was not a small wound. I grabbed the bandages off of my bedside table, and wrapped up my stomach, trying to stop the bleeding calmly, even though I was really freaking the fuck out. I didn't want to alert my sleeping parents. I had been keeping my wounds secret for long enough, I didn't want for myself to be found out. I groaned and looked around, widening my eyes at what I saw.

In the wall, was a shining golden dagger, blood dripping from the blade. "Ow, oh God." I groaned, feeling like that was the knife that had stabbed me.

Once I layed down for a few minutes, calming myself down, I sat up, grabbing one of my dirty shirts, but it wasn't as dirty as the one I went to bed with. The t-shirt I had gone to bed with had blood on it, and my sheets did too.

When I looked down at the floor, there was a body, he looked human, but the wings on his back said otherwise. Was he an angel like in all of those stories just like my dad told me about? He sure as hell looked like one.

My stomach churned, there was blood on his face, which was framed by blonde, curly hair. Was it my blood? Maybe it was his blood. I didn't want it to be anybody's blood. I covered my mouth in sheer horror, did I kill him?

Right as I touched the angel, he disintegrated, turning into pure gold dust. The only thing left of him was a single white feather, which was pure white and completely unharmed from his gruesome death. He was certainly a handsome angel, if you're into celestial beings. I ran the gold dust through the cracks in my fingers, it felt like the smallest grains of sand, it was amazing, then it disappeared.

The wounds stopped after that day. Maybe he gave up, since I was almost certain that angels can't die completely. My life was quite peaceful after that, though I never got married or had any children, I was perfectly happy with my dogs. When I died at the age of 64, I saw the angel who I had killed, he carried me home.