Almost Angelic

Ugh. I hate my life.

I know I'm not supposed to, that, being an angel, I'm supposed to be cheerful and happy and freaking naive all of the time. But I can't help it. I hate my life.

I mean, you spend all quadrillion-something years of your existence protecting people like the perfect little guardian angel you are, then you slip up once and--BAM!--you're fired. It's just not fair!

I suppose I should start out at the beginning. Yes, I'm a guardian angel. Well, an ex-guardian angel. And I suppose I'm not that angelic. But I was born--well, created, none of us were ever really "born," per se--an angel, and I've been dealing with that pretty well, I'd say! You see, the occupation of an angel is quite high-maintenance. What humans don't realize is that every second--every second--of their lives, they're in mortal danger. A flash flood might hit, or an anvil might fall on them, or maybe they'd just keel over and die like the weaklings they are. But with that track record, the whole species would have died out a long while ago. Which is why we're were. Well, why they're here.

We appear to be normal humans, and the fact that we can change forms, allowing us to age accordingly, lets us live up to that ruse. But we are gifted with the ability to see a death coming. And somehow, that gives us the responsibility to stop it. We might nonchalantly inform you to prepare yourself for said flash flood, or pull you away from the landing point of said anvil, or advise you to go to the hospital before you perish due to said weakness. And, as made apparent by the fact that people still die, sometimes we miss the chance. And what those selfish wimps don't realize is that every time one of them kicks it, one of us takes the blame.

So today it was me. Lilith--the head angel for our area and an annoying little gnat of a woman--has never liked me, so I should have known that she'd blame me for the whole incident despite the fact that there were at least three other angels present. It was hardly my fault--the man could have looked both ways before running out into the street--but she decided to blame me, so here I am.

I hate my life.

Of course, sitting in a ditch on the side of the road and sticking my tongue out at everyone passing by like the 8-year-old I appear to be may not be actually helping the situation. But what can I say? I'm not perfect. I'm not an angel. Not any more. Damn that Lilith.

Oh, right, the name's Whisper. Nothing more, nothing less. I've had it since the beginning of time itself, so that's what it is. And my form, as of right now, is that of a little blonde-haired girl, enough sass to seem a brat, but enough cuteness to make you overlook that. It's always been my favorite form. There's just nothing like having a little kid tell you that you owe her for saving your life with that mischievous little grin plastered on her face, is there? And then, once you're thinking about how cute she is, she takes your wallet and runs without so much of a thank you?

Okay. So maybe I deserved it. But who cares? I'm still gonna get back at that Lilith.

The End

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