1ANGELS OF GLASS AND STONE
Arc One:
She Who Is
"And unto me, o Great Father,
I take the sins of thy Brothers
Grant me one request;
That at the End,
I shall sleep within you
once more."
I.
Children screamed in the streets of the sleepy little town. Who was to know, that sunny Saturday afternoon in the middle of May, what would come of their happy lives? A child scorned, joined in the play of a game of duck-duck-goose, in hopes of being the Chosen One, who could run and chase and take down their foe-become-friend.
And in the house on the corner of Mayberry and High Crescent Circle, a little girl dreamed of one day being among them.
II.
Twelve years earlier, on a cold November evening, a sudden storm had rolled through the small and peaceful city. With it, had come the flurry of snow, harsh needles of rain, and the voices of children screaming out their welcome to a new world, in the depths of the maternity ward in the County General Hospital. In room 314, settled under a simple wooden cross Ms. Angelina Rosso joined the ranks of the Real World and became a statistic in the life of a Single Teenage Mother. As waves of pain had crashed through her, as she had screamed as her blood produced flesh from within her, and gave life to another of God's creations, a miracle came upon the ones present.
A calm, like an inhalation of breath, settled, drowning out her screams. A flurry of the brilliant white lights, what could have been a threat of power-outage, and hands smoothed down the sweaty dark hair from her brow.
"Fear not, sweet innocent." A voice so warm and childish that Angelina's next scream died before it could rise, "For all of God's children are loved."
And the lights had gone out, and every child in the building screamed, a chorus of a newborn choir, crying out in a language no human could understand. A refrain of voices that shook the walls.
And it was all stopped, by the single wailing cry, of Ms. Angelina Rosso's newborn daughter, who had opened her eyes to a world of darkness.
III.
From her window, Tazza Rosso stared down at the sunny streets, her pale fingers drifting gently over the dirty windowpane. Mother had braided her hair, this morning, a long drop of golden-brown down to her waist, sealed with a brilliantly orange bow. She was wearing her favorite dress, with its lace collar and flower-print skirt. But she couldn't go out today. Much like every other day. Mother said she was sick. Tazza said she felt fine. Mother's word was always law. Tazza should have known.
But the closet door was moving again, swinging slowly open. And a soft settling of fabrics, and padded, shuffled footsteps over faded tan carpet, announced that she was not alone. Mother called her a liar, when she'd told her of the angel in her closet. Mother said angels weren't real.
"Is it nice out today?"
Silence.
"I think it is." Her twelve-year old voice was soft in the pale shadows, "Mama says it's never nice outside. That inside is always better. But I think she's scared. Do you think she's scared?"
Fabric rustled, and her bed creaked as the figure sat down slowly.
"Mama's always scared. And angry. I know, I can see it in her lips. Have you seen it?"
Silence reined.
Tazza turned towards the figure, but the room was empty. She frowned, shrugging, and turned back to the window, cold green eyes cast downward at the children.
"Mama says those ones are evil." She trailed her finger in a vertical line over the dirty glass, "But you know what?" The finger moved horizontal, then pulled away, a single, shaky cross against the dirty pane, "All of God's children are loved."
Tazza turned to the closet, watching it begin to swing shut slowly.
"Even you and me."
Click.
IV.
Everyone went to church on Sunday. It was tradition and good for neighborhood camaraderie. Angelina Rosso did not take Tazza to church for friends or companionship. She took her to church to force the child cast away her sins. Born out of wedlock, without love or tenderness, Tazza, Mother always said, was born with the Original Sin, and the proof was in the Mark.
The Mark was a single straight, dark line running down the inside of Tazza's right arm. Starting at the wrist, it moved in one solid line past the soft inner-elbow and vanished into her armpit. Angelina told her daughter that the Mark was the true proof that Tazza would live the life of a sinner and find her way into Hell. Over the years, Angelina had convinced herself that the person her child had claimed to have in her room was none other than Satan himself, or one of his many demons, telling her evil daughter about all the wicked things she would achieve.
On Sundays, Tazza sat in the front pew, near the end, with her hands primly folded in her lap, and staring straight ahead at the pastor. Her mother would have her receive communion, then stay after the ceremony for another 20 minutes of silent prayer, then a trip to the Confessionary, where she would stand outside the small room and listen to all the evils her daughter confessed to.
Angelina Rosso should have known that this Sunday would be different. The heavy air that surrounded the two as they made their way up the heavy marble steps to the cathedral sang of rain as dark clouds rolled in on the horizon. Tazza paused on the 13th step, turning from her mother, who had her wrist clasped firmly, and looked upwards. Angelina had tugged on her daughter, called her name, and then hissed under her breath, using her free hand to push a loose strand of hair back behind her ear.
"Mama…" Tazza's childish voice sang, "Mama, the Angels are coming to church today!"
Angelina hissed at her daughter and tugged her arm, trying to keep her moving, "Of course they're here. This is their house!"
Tazza did not move, staring at the sky.
"Tazza!"
The little girl winced, nodded once, then turned and allowed her mother to drag her inside.
V.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned." Tazza's soft voice crashed into the dark corners of the confessionary booth. Her mother leaned against the door outside, unwilling to let her sins escape without the weekly blessing.
"What ails you, my child?" Came a warm, heavy voice from beyond the darkness of the grate.
Tazza was quiet, staring at the single shaft of light reaching out from under the door. She watched the shadow of her mother shift, and winced, knowing her mother grew impatient.
"I…" Tazza began, her voice barely audible, "I invited the Angels to mass today."
"Where is the sin in this? God welcomes all his children to Mass, even his Angels.
Tazza shook her head violently, "The Angels do not like Mass!" She clutched her small hands into her favorite skirt, watching flower petals flow over her knuckles, "They…they say they do not like us…"
"God loves all His children, little one. And His Angels share His love."
"They do not."
She could hear his frown, and hear the soft noise her mother made outside the door.
"Why do you say such things?"
"The Angels despise us. They say we are the lowest of God's creations, but we earn His love by doing nothing but sin."
There was silence, "This talk is inappropriate, young one. What you say defaces the name of the Lord and all His Kingdom."
Tazza ducked her head, feeling shame wash through her. Then, cleared her throat and sank lower, "Forgive me, Father…for I have sinned…"
Her eyes fell once again t the light and shadows on the floor, "Forgive me, Mother…the Angels say you will join them soon."
VI.
Thunder conquered the city, rain drowning out any sounds of protest from the people experiencing the wrath. Tazza stared blankly out her second-story window, down at the empty street. Her face a perfect view of a blank canvas, she listened to the sounds of the thunder and clang and clash of her mother wreaking havoc in the kitchen. Church had gotten her in trouble, and she wouldn't doubt a lack of food for dinner, perhaps for breakfast as well.
Thunder rolled over the floors, and Tazza turned in time to see the closet door falling open.
"You've come…"
A rustle of heavy fabric.
"So soon…"
Silence, as a dark shadow spilled into the room.
"What about Mama?"
A few moments of silence, Tazza waited.
"Oh."
VII.
There was nothing that stayed fresh in Tazza's mind as much as that Sunday night, as the conquering thunder storm rolled on, off towards more dangerous and free territories. With the smell of fresh grass heavy in the air, Tazza had made her way down the creaking old stairs, sticking close to the shadows and feeling all the better because of it.
Light from the kitchen pooled in the hallway, ugly on the brown carpet. Tazza heard Mama's breath, heavy and quick. So, she was still angry.
But there was something else. Mama wasn't alone in there. It moved, whatever it was. Heavy footsteps on linoleum. Dragging cloth. No breath. Tazza's heart stopped.
The entire world stopped.
And before the 12-year old could understand…it threw itself into fast forward.
There was a shadow in the kitchen. And she was moving towards it. That shadow in the rectangle of light on the floor seemed a beacon, screaming for her. And she went.
Black.
Black against pale skin. Black clothes. Black hair. Black eyes.
Black wings.
The creature—not human, but looking almost it—struck Tazza at first as the most beautiful being she had ever seen. And most horrible.
Slanted, cat-like eyes blinked her way and the creature froze, light hard against its chiseled high cheekbones, black rivers of hair falling to just past its finely pointed ears. It looked on her for only a moment before turning its thin figure away.
The wings filled in any weakening of intimidation from the creature's lithe figure. Looking too oversized and completely out of place, they shed small feathers all over the floor, where they pooled, remained for a few seconds, then faded into nothing.
Mama didn't see it. Or chose to ignore the creature, curling up against the kitchen table, her head in her hands.
It was almost surreal when the creature ran a comforting hand through Mama's hair. It was scary when the hand slid down to mama's neck. Any by the time Tazza was screaming, Mama was on her back, on the floor, the creatures perfect fingers clawing into Mama's neck.
VIII.
Men in blue and black uniforms showed up at the house four days later. They found the body of Angelina Rosso sprawled on the kitchen linoleum, blood dried and fanning out around her like broken wings. There was no sign of struggle, no forced entry. No footprints in the blood or fingerprints on the body or surrounding area.
It was 15 hours still, before they found Tazza. Huddled in her closet, she had to be removed with force, though she went calmly.
When the police finally asked the 12-year old what she had seen, she turned her pale face and blank eyes on them and smiled. The swirling lights of the squad cars hit her expression with a chilling edge.
"Fear not, small one. All God's children are Loved."
A/N: Unedited. Anyone want to play editor for me?