Fallen is the new blackMature

Plunging into the human world for me was kind of like a human searching for that newly discovered species of giant squid that drags divers down into the depths of the sea. It’s a crazy, mysterious endeavor that shouldn’t be attempted by everyone because of how dangerous it is. It shouldn’t even have crossed my mind, I mean God created an entire firmament for us to dwell and it still wasn’t enough for me.

Against His word I took blasphemous peeks at the world and living things He created after us. They were like us in some ways yet so incredibly different. They starved, they mourned, they suffered and it was all so overwhelmingly beautiful. The craving for it all struck my heart so heavy I wept. I wanted to taste the pain for myself.

The other angels scolded me and demanded I repent before our Father heard my sacrilegious thoughts, but the fount was open and there was no hope of it being forced close. I thought that if I could sneak down to Earth and talk with a single human being, I would be sated and that would be the end of it.

The moment I went to breach the firmament and find my way down to Earth, there was a bright flash of light and a voice so loud it shook the stars. “Belial, my child, you have shamed me. I hereby strip you of your wings, and curse you to spend 1,000 years as the human creature you are so curious about.”

500 years ago I woke up in a desert in Egypt, my back bleeding from where my wings had been ripped out. There were legends of other fallen angels, who had been dealt a similar fate and turned their backs on heaven forever, but we asked for this, and so I was determined to make the most of my punishment and then head happily home. I traveled to countless cities, using various names and getting to know as many people as I could.

Some were impressive, others were cruel but they were all interesting and I kept track of them all in a leather bound journal. In the last century or so I discovered that I had a particular gift for the arts, and I began taking lessons to improve my painting skills. I branched out from paint to charcoal, oil pastels and even this delightful invention known as the prismacolor pencil. Art was the closest thing to being back in heaven that I’d found on Earth.

I decided to become more proactive with my gift, enrolling in the small but well-funded St. Lori’s School for the Modeling Arts. My original intent was to draw the clothing designs that the sewing students would put together, but even in my current body the human females fawned over me and insisted I wear the clothes. Delorobia was the name I had chosen this time, and I had somehow been pressured into something they called a “fashion show”.

The girls in my design class giggled as they slipped me into the all-white ensemble and I let them. I was feeling a bit silly making my way down the runway, with my hands crammed into my pockets to avoid the nasty habit I had of fidgeting when I wasn’t holding a pencil. I paused at the end the way the girls had instructed me to when I saw him for the first time—the boy with the blonde hair who would change my existence forever.

The End

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