Four-hundred and ninety-two.
That's how many Angels fall from the Edge annually. On average, anyway.
Last year, two-hundred and thirty-five Angels died. Ninety-eight percent of them died while trying to fly. Thirty-two of those deaths were slow and painful.
He stretches his wings out behind him, each reaching out five feet on either side of him.
His best friend jumped too early. Fell right through the sky, right through the clouds, invisible to everyone on Earth because he hadn't grabbed his halo. Smashed his skull on something or another, convulsed for an hour and his heart collapsed the moment they brought him back up.
Skye looks up at him from where she lies on the cloud. "So that's why you don't fly?"
He gives his wings a test beat, a gust of wind breezing around him, feet not leaving the cloud. "Yeah."
There's silence between them for a moment.
Then, "You have to face your fears eventually."
He almost smiles at that. "I'm not afraid." Not of flying, anyway.
YOU ARE READING
Angel Wings
ParanormalSometimes, you just have to choose. Humans or mythical freaks. (This isn't what failing is supposed to mean.)
