The Life of An Angel

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 She watched in silence as her Master collected his money from the bald man at door. Slowly, almost mockingly, he walked to her smirking like a cat toying its prey as she slipped into her normal clothing after he harnessed her wings. He didn't have to tell her to hold out her hands, she'd been doing this long enough to know the routine. After the shackles were secured on her wrists, she sat in her corner and wept a quietly as she could, knowing if she cried out she'd be in trouble later. Master stood around the concrete tunnel longer than usual that night, mumbling phrases in Russian she didn't recognize and drinking tinted liquids before he looked at her with nothing less than distaste and left, slamming the iron door and creating a painful echo. 

 In vain, she slipped her small fingers under the steel collar around her neck in attempt to loosen it. She had no energy to struggle against her bindings, the links of the chains were thicker than her wrist and collectively probably weighed more than the young woman herself. The cuffs jangled against the floor, laughing at her weakness and humiliation, which she often dwelled on. She'd been there in that cave for so long and her miserable life consisted of man after filthy, perverted man. The only decent company she kept were her books and Master often took those away when she misbehaved. She had forgotten how the sun felt on her skin and what the stars looked like and the smell of rain. 

She waited until she knew Master was gone to cry out loud but regretted it when there was a knock at the door. She sniffed the air and found something new lingering there through the musk and cheap colognes and rusted metal. She remained stationary in her concrete corner, her home for so many years, she didn't know how old she was or how long she'd been there or what year it was, her corner was the only thing she knew for sure.  

A Heart Full of Love// Kurt WagnerWhere stories live. Discover now