Halo

Blue eyes widen in dark satisfaction. Slender fingers curl around the hilt of a silver knife, pupils following the trail of blood down the blade, down her spidery hands.

Memory carves the image of the maimed boy, writhing under the twisted blade and dark grin of their angel.

They will overlook the blood on her hands, the prints on her knife, the snarl that rips from her throat, “I did it.”

They will tell her to be brave once more. Be the angel, once more.

Pale lips part in agony. She will forever be an angel, here.

Silver stained crimson touches a paper-white wrist. Blue blood erupts and trailes a sinewy line down a freckled arm.

Consciousness floats away, tossed into the breeze like so many dead leaves.

To be an angel with an invisible halo; To be a saint amongst the living;

“I never wanted the halo.”

One last whisper, and she is gone.

Their angel dies, and they live happily.

She was an angel, after all.