Sins On The Skin

XXX.

Few months later.

'Sometimes, in order to soar you need to cut off your wings and burn them. Only then can you truly realise that they were never truly yours.

You saw them get ripped off that poor Angel's back and when nobody was looking you didn't even stop to think about it, you just grabbed them and ran until your lungs bled and oxygen was nothing but a foreign concept to you. You saved what you could from your loved one, who could ever blame you? He, certainly, would never.

He'd understand.

He'd forgive you.

He'd love you for it.

You kept that thought in mind as you stitched the wings to your back, marvelling over how beautiful they looked, how their scent and their warmth reminded you of him.

At first, they looked so pure, they fit you so perfectly.

He would have loved them on you.

But you weren't like him, you didn't share his divinity and they knew it.

They felt it with every breath you took, you little imposter.

The first signs of their death revealed themselves only days after. You found some stray, wilted feathers around your bed, their colour appearing almost dirty, no longer resembling the pure ivory you recalled. Weeks later, what was left was only a carcass, a memory of what they used to be but you still kept them on, knowing fully well that they were rotting, decaying your body along with them and that there was nothing that could be done to stop them.

Sulfur masked your usual lilac scent and poisoned your lungs, not killing you but not letting you live, either.

You were barely surviving.

You couldn't breathe.

So, you stopped running.

You let the bleeding, wingless Angel wrap his arms around your fragile body, knowing that he was caressing your soul more than the skin you had grown to despise.

He was still aching, the pain of your betrayal scarring him worse than his wounds.

But he comforted you.

He understood.

He forgave you.

He loved you.

He gathered the running blood on his fingernails and decorated your body with the seven virtues, erasing the sins that held you down for so damn long.

There's a strange sense of comfort in accepting catharsis when you're unsure of how deserving you are of it.

He was so broken, his blessedness had disappeared but he never stopped worshipping you. He never stopped giving you the last breaths of divinity inhabiting his formerly celestial body.

You looked at the blood staining your skin, felt the air over the words and decided to repay that twisted favour. You dug your nails into the soft skin of your thigh and pressed until the fresh metallic stench hit your nostrils. Then you took the drops and played with his skin, devoting sins to him as if he was a God willing to carry them for your sake.

When the ritual was complete, he pressed his lips to your temple and held your neck between his fingers.

You offered no resistance as he pressed and pressed until black spots filled your vision.