People. They do some crazy shit. Of course, this is an observation that would leave even the most decorated Captains of the Obvious mortified in his or her offence. But when one takes into ginger consideration that I was still ‘trucking’ for all intents and purposes with a knife currently embedded in my stomach, I figured I would be justified in giving myself kudos for that, at least. As for how I got into such a dire predicament…well, that’s really none of your goddamn business, now is it? Leather clad knees wavered for an instant, drunken B-List stars pirouetting around the other, hiding their embittered souls behind a glass fragile smile and their own pretension; behind the emerald mask of the amber liquid that held for them the sweet whisper of oblivion, they were free to swallow what lies and spider-silk thin comforts they wished---here was hoping that they choked on the jagged shards of their long-broken dreams. And then, swiftly, silently, they folded in on themselves, spilling the dark liquid of their owner to the earth---all one hundred and fifty pounds of her, to be exact.

She walked a rough, wobbly, uncertain line drawn by the small hands of a child with their first box of crayons, marking the path of a God-forsaken creature. To say that the pavement was derelict would be phrasing it mildly. The sidewalk bore the trials of thick, begrimed, particles from years of heavy traffic, as well as darker, deeper, and discolored marks engrained into the floor from god-knew-what being dragged along the length of the grimed surface. It was also damp, and reeked faintly of urine. The few who still haunted this hour like pallid wraiths were swift to avert their eyes and step over her frame. In this city-it was best to keep silent. The keys to survival were simple enough mantras- “I saw nothing. I heard nothing. I know nothing.” As mentioned, most stepped politely enough over her downed frame…others were less courteous. One man even curled his lip upwards in a poor, deranged mockery of a snarl, and ground the heel of his boot into the soft, yielding flesh of her hand, eliciting both a muffled report of snapping bone and a curse from the victim alike.

She blinked pale eyes of brooding ocean and withdrew to the embrace of the shadows, who seemed to clutch her close and rest their chins upon her shoulder with a relived exhale-a mothering ending the once frantic search for a misplaced toddler. She did so with ease, as if pressing one’s back to graffiti bedecked walls was as commonplace and as everyday an occurrence as afternoon tea. Her head lolled in a limp fashion on her shoulders as she cast her gaze to the skies, inhaling in even measures, fingers absently caressing the hilt of the dagger. In truth, I no longer felt pain. Or so I thought. In reality…. The pain was surprising, unexpected. For a being once above such trivial things such as pain, lust, and emotion, it was as shockingly refreshing as a shower suddenly run cold. This then was what mortals so bemoaned, so feared. Was she, now mortal, to be plagued by such? No matter. She reached both arms above her head then, as if in a casual stretch. She flickered for an instant-like the flame of a candle caught in a sudden draft. Even as she did so, her ensemble was transformed.

Gone from her frame was the midriff-exposing tube-top, and in its place was an ebon silk shirt that whispered of its expense. A thing of a past were her leather pants, now replaced by a floral-print black and white hued skirt. And resting within each palm were twin pistols. She shook her head, as if dissatisfied, and that, too, changed-as the chameleon does. Slowly, as if an unseen artist colored vague whispers of his muse onto the pallet of her hair, her long, russet locks rippled as if within a breeze that did not exist-they drew back as a curtain withdraws with a mere whisper from a stage in dim modesty, shortening. At length, her hair settled on a deep near midnight blue, with gold at the tips. “You okay, angel?”

She glanced up, uncomprehending, startled. A man frowned down upon her, concern etched into his careworn features. She couldn’t afford his sympathy. She didn’t want it. She hated him. She hated…all of them.. So when would they finally see that the useless avatar they so idolized-didn’t give a damn about them. And that was the truth about their precious “savior.” “I’m fine,” she growled, rising to her feet. “Even angels learn to fall.” How ironic. What would they say if they knew that, though I save them…I despise them? Why do I protect those who would kill me without hesitation if they knew my true nature? Don’t look so shocked. I’m a monster. And monsters…can’t afford to be sentimental. They weren’t ones to be patient, either. Christ. He’s going to kill me.

She rose to her feet then, brushed away the man’s proffered arm, snarling as even that gesture nearly swept her from her feet. “Miss….” He began again. “You really should seek medical attention. At least let me call an ambulance…” “No!” Her voice was sharp-the sound of glass underfoot. “No. Don’t….don’t touch me. Ever.” She sighed then, as his face danced from one emotion to the next. Concern, shock, anger, hurt. They always…always looked at her like that. Accusing her of something. She opened her mouth, almost as if she would apologize, but instead, she snapped her mouth shut, turned abruptly on her heel, and with calm, measures steps, walked from both the side street and the kindness of a stranger both. And never once glanced back.

Regret is a silent scream in the heart.