Blood and Tears

Of Bullets and Blood

Jericho was kneeling on the cold ground. It was the first time he had been here since he became an angel. It was a stark contrast to the warm clouds he was used to and for the first time since he can remember, wind pricked at his skin, chilling it. He shivered and sucked in frigid, dirty air. Earth. He was on Earth. He dug his fingers into the soil, feeling the damp dirt and soggy grass. It wasn’t raining now, but the world was fresh and clean with a long-gone downpour.

“Angel Jericho. You are aware of the crimes you have committed?” The Archangel Gabriel stood above him, glory practically shining in the dark. It wasn’t completely black, but the setting sun was still hidden behind the grey clouds and Jericho could barely see him.

“Yes.” Jericho said as he kneeled, facing away from Gabriel. He kept his head tucked between his arms. “Yes I know of which I am accused and guilty.”

“As decreed by our Lord God, you have committed a sin and for that, you are to be banished from Heaven. Punishment will be carried out, effective immediately.” He said; voice steady and unyielding. Jericho braced himself. He knew what was coming.

Gabriel strode over to him, his angelic feet never actually touching the ground, but hovering inches above it. He put both hands on one of Jericho’s bright white wings. Jericho winced in anticipation. The avenging angel pulled and Jericho screamed, his voice to be unheard by any human. He felt his thin bones break and feathers tear and he felt sick. He almost blacked out when he saw his perfect swan wing in the mud next to him, red and brown staining the pristine white. Blood soaked the earth next to him as his second wing was torn from him. The pain was so incredible; Jericho prayed he would become numb. But that was not the case. This was the first step of his punishment and he had to bear it. It was the price he paid, and he paid it willingly.

This was nothing compared to the pain he would suffer if he lost her. So Jericho grit his teeth as his wings were reduced to small, bloody stumps in his back. His once large and beautiful wings sat next to him in the muck for only a moment before disintegrating into ash. Desperate, he reached out to a small, downy feather that hadn’t yet disappeared. He held it in his hands and gripped it, the last reminder of who he had been.

When he opened his hands again, it was merely a pile of ash. He tipped his palm and let it fall onto the ground. Jericho’s back throbbed and he winced. The intense pain had ended, but everything about him was sore. Gabriel had left, his powerful presence wasn’t missing; it was as if he had never been there. Jericho could remember everything about his life before, but it was as if he never lived it at all.

He was merely a dream.

Jericho bolted awake, sweat drenching his clammy skin. His shoulders ached and he stretched them as he sat up in bed. He put his head in his hands and took deep breaths, trying to calm his jittery nerves. His skin was crawling and he felt uncomfortable. He threw off his covers and stepped onto the floor. He stepped into his bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror.

He looked worn out, like Albert had at the Post Office. He felt hundreds of years old. And, maybe he was. He didn’t really know. Clarice had been his first Ward, but it could have been centuries before he had actually received his assignment since he became an angel. He ran a hand through his dark hair and glared at the black locks. A mark of the Fallen. His hair, which had once shone like golden wheat in summer, was now as black as the ash that his wings became. He was grateful that he at least got to keep his icy blue eyes.

Jericho’s shoulders hurt more as he moved and he turned so he could just see his back. His skin was raw and enflamed around the nubs of bone that were once his beautiful wings. They prodded out just slightly, not piercing his skin, but making movement uncomfortable. He really only felt this in the morning, after a nightmare. There were two large scars that ran vertically down his shoulder blades, signifying where he once had wings. He touched a finger to the flesh and hissed in a breath. He retreated and walked over to his shower, turning it to cold. His skin was still crawling and he felt like he was choking on his own air.