The Angel-Maker

The needle weaves in and out of tender flesh in measured, skillful movements while the tailor sits, absently humming a faint chorus of ‘Hallelujah.’ He patiently dips the crimson stained tip of his needle up and down in time to the words, oblivious to the filthy cell walls.

The wings, for that’s what they are in the loosest sense of the word, are wires woven and crisscrossed in a delicate pattern. Their jagged ends split raw skin as they disappear beneath the disfigured surface, burying deep into tissue. This elaborate metal skeleton is only a framework for the pristine, white feathers which he painstakingly sews to the young man’s back, on and amid the embedded wires.

“The feathers match so well with your fair skin, my darling,” the Angel-Maker murmurs softly, pausing in his task to run delicate fingers through the younger man’s long, blond hair.

The prone, pale form can scarcely utter a breath of disagreement; the cocktail of drugs laced through his body limits movement, and fades his pulse to a soft echo. He knows that the wires are there, yes, and he knows that there should be pain as he lies naked on the dirty cot. The young man can see it all, through his cloudy eyes. The series of ingeniously rigged mirrors scattered at odd angles across the discolored floor allows him an unsettling view.

In these mirrors, he can see everything; everything, but nothing important. He can see other mirrors affixed to the grimy, low ceiling; they reflect his disfigured back. He can see, with startling detail, the skeleton of wings spread gracefully over him, and the thin tubes winding between them, mimicking veins. And if he looks very, very carefully, he can see the red trail of blood following the needle’s path. The young man can see all this, and more besides, yet he cannot see the Angel-Maker’s face.

The Angel can also hear softly spoken words, intimate and warm beside his ear. The faceless man calls himself God, and speaks to him on the subject of angels. He doesn’t speak to the young man about Archangels, but tells him tales of Lucifer and his fallen ones.

The Angel-Maker, in time, begins a new hymn, this one he sings in Latin. The needle point continues to rise with his voice, and fall with the pitch; tugging its thread in, and under, and out, again. With each dip of his rich voice, a new feather is attached, but it is only one of many.

His last note hangs for a moment, balanced flawlessly in the air, as the Angel-Maker bends down to the young man and whispers warmly into his ear, “They’re done.”

Though his thoughts are murky, the younger man glances down into a dirtied reflection and feels his stomach twist.

Framed by the mirror’s edges are the mangled and patched remains of his back. Perched atop both shoulder blades are the feathers, wires, and veins which have been flawlessly assembled. These crisp, clean wings are a startling contrast to the coated, rusty cell walls. But, if the young man focuses his gaze, the blood stains are still there, vivid and dark against an innocent white.

At this image, the Angel cannot help biting his tongue against a desperate and humorless laugh as he wonders how much it hurt when Lucifer lost his wings.