From Nobody to Nightmare Prologue

The rough and rocky red earth allured him greatly, as if inviting him to fall down upon it and rest. This was against his better judgment, with him knowing that if he did fall, he would hurt himself, what with the prickly pebbles upon hard sandstone. But in his current state, he wasn't one to judge. His tongue hung out of his mouth like a dog's, panting under the sweltering heat of the sun that broiled above in the Heavens. His aching hoofed feet trembled and seemed about to collapse underneath his own weight. He couldn't blame his poor feet, he had been stumbling through this barren wasteland for hours. Gazing through the haze of his eyelashes, his drooping eyes searched out nonexistent shelter in what seemed to be a wide expanse of red gravel and dirt. The fellow demons of his village called the desert "The Bloody Wastelands." It was the terrain located to the east of his village; a place only reserved for those who were truly desperate. Across the Wastelands lay…, well nothing. No one knew what was across it, yet why was he crossing through something without knowing his final destination? The answer was simple, because he was truly desperate in every sense of the word. Desperate and fearful for his own life that is. It was either this or going back to the raging Hell that was once his home and that was a certainty in death itself. Yet through here was almost a certainty to death, almost.There was a slight chance that he would come across a safe haven for him to recuperate and live his life out in seclusion in exile, a slight chance of survival, meaning life. A precious commodity that his parents and neighbors no longer had.

He was a young demon child, barely 14 summers old. His parents christened him the sacred name of Jacob. That in and of itself was an oddity among the demonic community, and he received all of the unwanted fanfare for it. Not the good kind mind you. The children at his village would jeer and tease. Sometimes, they would go to extremes by beating him up outside of the village and leave him lying in the fields for being such an angelic conformist. It was common knowledge throughout the land that demons and angels were mortal enemies. It was a miserable life, and he was the strange one, but he got used to it. Over time, the hateful whispers would fade and he would grudgingly be allowed to play with the other children. He was finally accepted into society.

Until that fateful day. A rival clan of demonic origins came riding upon the back of beasts into town. The simple village of farmers couldn't hope to hold out against a raiding force. The villagers came out of their meager homes holding out the simplest tribute that they could offer, but tribute was not what the raiders came for. He hid within the family's small wooden house when his mother came rushing in through the door. She ushered him through the back of the house and to the western exit of the village.

It's not safe for you here, run! Run far away and don't come back. Judging from the rising smoke and blood-torn screams, I couldn't question her. As I turned to run, she was already heading back. I didn't weep for a mother who sacrificed herself for her child. It just wasn't the demon's way.

All of these thoughts flashed through his mind, but he was finding it harder to think as the effects of dehydration set in. His mouth was dry and sticky, and he thirsted for water so bad. His right hand clutched his wounded side, which still dripped blood onto the ground even after hours, which should be long enough for the wound to scab over and close. An excruciating headache hammered on as if someone were trying to pound a nail through his skull. He managed to take a few more steps before he finally gave out and fell face first to the ground. Fatigue had finally caught up to him and the single thought that flashed through his mind was death. He had lost his tiny gamble on a safe haven and life as a result. Minutes seemed to stretch on into hours and he wondered why God didn't give him the mercy of finishing him off right now instead of dying a slow sweltering death. "Wait," he thought to himself, "of course God wouldn't take pity on me. I am a demon after all."

A shadow seemed to loom above him, giving a small respite from the sun's heat. His tapered ears picked up the sound of flapping wings. "Great, the vultures are here for me," he groaned. A pure golden feather drifted down and lay next to his face. He raised an arm and picked it up, even that small action was exhausting, but he was beyond caring of energy conservation anymore. He held it up to the sun, and it seemed to reflect rays of multi-colored light, like a rainbow. "So beautiful," he breathed. To see such a beautiful thing so close to death must be bad luck on my part. I won't get to enjoy it so.

One cannot rule out the possibility of delirium at this point, though. He fingered the soft feather and curled it into his clawed palm. The flapping of wings grew louder and soon a pair of feet clad in straw sandals touched down on the red dirt right next to him. He tried to gaze upwards, but the sun was directly behind the figure and obscured his vision.

"F-friend or f-f-foe?" he rasped from his desert dry throat, making his voice sound scratchy and slightly unintelligible. A cool hand touched his fever-hot forehead. He shivered at the sudden contact. His head was tilted back and lips softly parted by gentle hands when a water pouch made from some unfortunate creature's skin was uncorked, and cool refreshing, life-giving water was poured down his open mouth. It was like heaven on Earth. A Samaritan act of kindness bestowed upon a sinful being. Truly, this person is an angel, he thought.

Soft white wings enveloped him, shading him from the fury of the desert sun. From a combination of fatigue, dehydration, fear, and a pounding headache, he fell into the blissful black pit of unconsciousness. In that black pit, he found contentment and gratitude for his savior. Thank you.

On a description of angels.

Artwork Insert "What Angels Wear" -J.R. Blackwell

Angels wear white.

Angels wear the blood red of martyrs. Angels wear the blue of a summon sky. Angels wear plum, amber and emerald. Angels wear wings on their shoulder blades, sharp golden wings to catch sunlight, to blind, to cut, to kill. Angels wear Roman robes, angels wear blue jeans, angels wear fur.

Angels wear leather jackets and ride motorcycles. Angels wear pale diaphanous strips of heaven-fabric, strategically placed by prudish hearts. Angels wear spider webs. Angels wear long black trench-coats that sway around their ankles. Angels wear peacock feathers, a thousand bright blue shining eyes.

Angels wear the paint of long dead artists, plastered to the ceiling of a chapel's artificial sky. Angels wear sea-foam from a primordial stew. Angels wear prayers. Angels wear messages, dreams of the dead, prophecies, divine will. Angels wear the clothes of the homeless. Angels wear high-tops, angels wear sandals, angels go barefoot.

Angels are naked.

Angels wear starlight.