notes: I dunno. I kind of like how it came out.
notes2: there is no offense meant by this piece; I am not religious, and I do not mean to be vulgar. It's just something I felt I had to write.
dedication: to hot, overly-sweet tea. It makes the world go 'round.


Dear fake god, please make this stop. There is a virus, a virus that is killing off anything and everything that keeps this world alive. It's destroying the things that this world requires to breathe.

So, please, fake god.

I know what I did was not wrong. I know this. But please, this world punishment does nothing but makes children cry. It makes their mothers hold them tight, and whisper words of comfort.

And what I did was not wrong.

I am not taking that back. But these people, all these people-! They don't understand that they've done nothing wrong.

And they haven't.

I know you are standing there, at the gates with St. Peter, waiting for me to die. If it is revenge you want, you'll find none. Lucifer will welcome me with open arms, just as he always has.

And I will be the princess, just like you always wished, just like he always promised. I was meant to be your bride, the bride of a false god, and I would have been the princess of heaven.

But your angels did not like that fact. No, they did not like it at all. Of course they wouldn't; I was the daughter of a noble from the ninth level of hell, one with black hair threaded with gold and purple and red, and crimson eyes, and skin as white as fresh snow, and I had black wings.

Cursed wings that were the same as my hair.

And your angels hated me. Your lovely angels with filthy souls. I could not go three days without being attacked, even though you ordered them, time and time again, to leave me alone.

And so I ran.

I hid myself in the body of a growing baby girl, a growing baby girl who didn't yet have a soul. I shed my body, shed my image, and took hers on. And for twelve years, I lived with her face, and her eyes, and her smile. And for twelve years, I answered to her name when it was called. It was an ordinary name, nothing to suggest she was anybody but herself, but still, you found me.

We were in that church, dusty and musty and old. I went, for the twelve years of my 'childhood' and pretended to pray, and pretended to drink the wine-that-was-your-blood, and pretended eat the cracker-that-was-your-flesh. I pretended until my first communion.

And then you found me, when I refused to take the sacraments, cold fury in my eyes. You were an unkind god, when I knew you, and I did not understand how these humans could love you so.

And you wanted me to come back, to be your bride. I had missed the wedding, just as the angels said I would, but it made no difference. You wanted me to be your bride. You always were a cruel being.

And I would have none of it.

But I could not shed this girl's image, for she had no soul other then my own, and I would not do that to the woman I had called mother for twelve years.

They call you a forgiving god, did you know? Forgiving and kind and loving.

But you are none of these things. You are cruel and terrible and rude and mean and petulant and whiny.

And I refuse to be married to such an abomination. Not when I was engaged to the ruler of hell, the only true angel to actually feel something.

They say he betrayed you, these odd writings that the humans hold so dear. I was told to learn verses from it, but it was something that I adamantly refused to do. I told them the truth, or at least I tried.

I told them that it had been you who betrayed Lucifer.

Which was the truth, was it not? You told him that you wanted him to gather something for you; something called 'Innocence', correct? And gather it, he did.

And then you threw him out, made a scapegoat out of him.

And he, beautiful demon-angel-god that he is, created the nine levels of hell. You cast him into a never-world, where there was nothing.

And he created! He did what you did, only better! He created a world where there was only truth. Your angels are as bloodstained as the demons from my own world, but at least the demons are honest about it.

And he did the other thing that you were never able to.

He created peace.

And you hated him for it, when he created what he did. He created true peace. And you never could.

And then I was born.

They called me Helen, after Helen of Troy, so beautiful that she was the cause of a war. I was born to a noble, an Earl and his Lady. I was the third child.

I was beautiful. I still am beautiful.

But then, it was my innocence that charmed those I met. I did not understand anything that went on around me, and I knew only to smile at those I loved.

And when I was five, I met Lucifer for the first time. And I am going to tell you this story, so that you understand why I can never be yours, no matter how much you want me to be. And perhaps it is to see you squirm.

I was wearing a yellow dress, the colour of the sun and of everything good in the world. It left my back uncovered, and all I wanted to do was let my wings free and fly.

But my mother – my real mother, not the mother I had as a human girl – held me back, and scolded. And then I caught sight of a man in black, and all that my five year old mind registered was that he ought to belong to me.

I skipped over to him, and I smiled up at him, my eyes closing briefly. He was so much taller then I was; a protector even then. He left me entirely in shadow, and I couldn't see his face.

He told me later that, at that moment, when I smiled at him, he said that he knew he was going to marry me.

And age is something that is never considered in my world, when one finds one's other half. My parents had never been happier; their daughter, bonded to the only true god! Bonded to the only one who really meant anything. Bonded to one who had said he could never love.

Because love is such a strange thing. Such a strange, strange thing.

And he used to love you. Did you know? He did. Of course, it was a different love then the one he holds for me. But he adored you.

You were everything that he wanted to be. And then, of course, you threw him out. But even then, he could not bring himself to war with you. It's what I'm sure you wanted.

He sent a delegation, including myself and several of his most trusted advisors, to meet with you, to meet with you in a safe, neutral place.

The human world. It is not a place held in high esteem by me and mine, but we went. I had just turned fifteen, and it was only three weeks before I was forever bonded to him. Three. Weeks. It is nothing, when you think of how long I have lived; how long you have lived! Three weeks! I could have been happy, in three weeks.

But, no. I went, as I was bid by the only person who had ever held my heart. I went to the stinking human world, and I played parley with your angel-children.

And then, two days later, I met you.

I was wearing a dusky red dress. My mother had it made, with no back, and laced with gold thread, to bring out the purple in my hair, and to emphasize my eyes.

She had it made it for me to be married in, not to be worn at some frivolous party where I would meet the one who ruined the life of my love.

I had nothing but contempt for you.

And do you blame me? You are an angry person, with angry eyes. You are not kind. You have no love for those who do not bow to you; just as he has love for those who ignore him and damn him.

You are evil.

But that night, dressed in silver and white, I thought that, perhaps, you had a strange, empty beauty about you.

I suppose you took one look at me, and decided that I would be yours, whatever it took. I do not pretend to understand how you came to this conclusion, but you did.

I was told, the next day, that it was a very simple exchange. I was the bargaining price, the hidden card, the prize.

If my love wanted peace, he would have to give me up to be your bride. I protested this; did I have no say in such a thing? But I was silenced by the look on my love's face.

And my Lucifer, my beautiful, wonderful, incredible Lucifer… He looked torn. I know that he truly wanted the peace that you promised.

But there is no one in living memory who has given up their other half for anything less then death.

But my love… he, he did. He was willing to give me up, break the engagement, if there was to be lasting peace.

I remember feeling shock. And hurt.

But I understood. Had I not stood at his side, grown up at his side, hoping that one day, I, too, could perhaps help create an ideal world? And so I conceded.

But your angels, the lovely angels with filthy souls and darkness in their hearts, they… well, you know the rest. They did not like the fact that I was not one of them, and so they threw me out.

I must confess; I thank them.

They broke the peace accord, not I. It is their shame, not mine. And if not for them, I might never have had the chance to take flight for the last time in twelve years.

And now, as I watch the plains burn, I look up at the chestnut-haired woman who has been my mother for twelve years, and I begin to cry. In your utopia-land, it is shamed upon to show emotion as freely as I am bound to do.

In this stinking human-world, it is acceptable. I appreciate that.

I cry and cry; I cry for the world, I cry for the older brother who is lying dead at my feet, I cry for the soldiers who do their bloody work in God's Name.

I wish I could scream at them. I wish I could show them all the atrocities that your angels have committed. I wish I could prove it to them. But I will never be able to. Because they will never listen. I am the child of demons.

And so I cry.

The mother of this body gently pulls me into an embrace, and holds me close to her skirt. I clutch the pale grey fabric, and I cry. She wipes my tears away, and tells me to run. She says that she will not allow the soldiers to take her angel-child away.

I wish to tell her that this comment makes me sick, but I know she means that I am a good child, one that she wishes to keep, but knows it is impossible.

And so I run.

I run and run, and I finally, finally shed my body. I shriek in relief, metallic hatred thick on my tongue. I hate you, I hate you, and I hate you. And I will make you pay.

You destroyed everything I ever wanted, everything I ever could have had. I will stand for it no more. I take a moment to stare down at the human body that is simply lying there. She is pretty; I see this now. She has brown hair tinged the colour of copper, and it shines in the bloody sunlight. Her skin is tan from many mornings spent singing in the garden, and her eyes, staring wide with the lack of having a soul, are a milky, warm brown.

I find that there are tears in my eyes.

This girl should not be lying dead right now. She should never have been me. She should have had the chance to fall in love with the person who had been courting me; I turned him down so very many times. She should have had the chance to have children. She should have lived.

And it is all your fault.

Rage screams through my veins and my vision flashes red. I do not think I have ever hated anyone as much as I hate you right at this second. You killed this girl.

You killed her.

It does not matter that I took her body, and broke it so truly. She does not have a soul. Her soul was mine, and mine was hers. It does not matter that you never touched her. You made me run. You made me take her life.

You killed her!

The rage does not subside. The hatred I am feeling tastes acidic on my tongue, and I wish to find you, and watchyou burn. This will be the last life you destroy.

You will die, even if I have to kill you myself.