Angel of Darkness, Demon of Light

Dust drifts in currents.  A tear falls upon the ground.

“My music has left me,” Dusty Rose sobs.

“You pitiful faggot,” was the only cold reply.

The angel bows his head.  Another tear falls.  Crystals and powder drift among his toes.

“What good is your music if you don't sing it?”  The voice is softer this time.  Dusty Rose shakes his long hair.  A feather falls from his wings.

“I've lost my music.  It has left me.”

“I don't talk to cross-dressers.”  Uncertainty?  The darkness around the angel seems to shift as he kneels to catch the falling feather.  The darkness seems to sigh.  “Why did you call me?”

“Hatred.”

The darkness sounds shocked.  “What?”

Dusty Rose begins pulling the feather apart.  “There is no more love here.  I am empty and alone.  And my music has left me.”

The darkness spits.  “Liar.  Fuckin' liar.”

Another tear runs down the angel's face, tracking new lines through his powdery visage.  His hands fidget over the remains of the feather.  “I HURT!  We are alone, Bengal.  Is there such a thing as love?”

“Liar.”

“Is there love for those like us?”

“Liar,” the darkness whispers.

Dusty Rose wonders, is she desperate?  He shakes his head at the darkness.  “You know I would never lie to you.”

“Do I?”

“You and I, we are of a kind.  Alone.  Doomed to wander the nightways alone...  You and I are of a kind...  We both walk the night...  And both are doomed when come the light.  Shed a tear, Bengal.  Shed one with me.”

Darkness heaves and pulls.  Out coils a slender arm.  “For what should I waste my tears?  For you?  For me?  For love?  What need have I for love?  You know... vampires don't cry.  I am a beast.  Look into my eyes and wonder how you could think anything else.”

Arm, leg, one raised breast, and then the other.  Darkness molds and then splits.  And then wraps around her body.  Her clear eyes stare into his muddied ones.  What color are they?

“I think you're beautiful.”  Dusty Rose is breathless.

“I AM NOT!”  Bengal bares her long teeth, and jerks her face from sight.  Pale hair catches tendrils of darkness.  It coils and mixes  with the angel's dust.

“To my eyes... you are.”

“You have the eyes of a blind man wallowing in shit.”  Her words are bitter and cold.  She doesn't look at him.

More tears fall.  Dusty Rose covers his face and falls to his knees.  Clouds rise around him like an embrace.

“Faggot!” Bengal hisses.  She paces around him, her hands and long nails grasping.

“Help me, please,” desperation in his voice, “I need my music!  My heart.  My soul.  I need love to fill me, to sustain me.  I— I am alone.  I have lacked too long!”

“Love.”  Bengal bats at the dust motes.  “I have never known it... but I will never need it.”  Bengal bows her head.

“You will know it.  You will need it.”

“LIAR!”

“I never lie.”  The angel whispers.

“Then you are stupid and weak.  Lies make you strong.  There is no danger in lies.  You need not show anything of yourself, just what you want to show.  The only fear is to be caught...  Lies raise you above those who don't.”

Dusty Rose's fingers fidget with the remains of the feather.  Other feathers fall away, vanishing into the darkness below.  “I have lied to many.”

Bengal laughs triumphantly, heartlessly.  “Then what kind of angel are you?”

“I am alone.  I am sad.  And I am without love.”

“That means nothing to me.  What kind of an angel has no love?”

“I have love to give, Bengal.  But there is none to return it.  I need love to survive, to find my music.”

Bengal sneers at him.  "Why should I care about the pain of a weak liar?”

Dusty Rose still searches for her eyes, but she refuses to meet his.  “I have never lied to you, Bengal.  I never will.”

He rises and approaches.  Her eyes turn to meet him.  She stands defiant.  Like a trembling animal, he approaches and gently kisses her.  Her eyes snap shut and then open.  He is beautiful.  Not like the perfection of the others.  His beauty lays elsewhere.  Why hasn’t she seen it before?  Hate.  Fear.  Long canines curve from her mouth.  Pale eyes narrow.

“Look at you… a faggot angel.  Tell me, Dusty Rose, why are all angels men?… boys?”  Her voice a harsh whisper, her eyes cruel and sharp.  “Tell me, Dusty, do you prefer the ones like little boys?  The fat little ones with tight pink assholes?”

Dusty Rose's arms wrap around his thin frame, clutching his powdered robes.  Clouded eyes wide, he backs away.  Fraying wings fold around him protectively.  He shakes his head, no.

“Tell me about the little ones.”  Whispered hiss.  “Or do you like the tall ones?  So round, they almost have…”

“Breasts.  Beauty.  Womanhood.”  Dusty Rose shudders.  His eyes look to Bengal's.

“Breasts.  Like a woman’s.”  She smiles, teeth dimpling her lips.

“A woman…”

“A woman?”  Laughter, sharp and biting.  The angel flinches.

Bengal leans closer.  “What would you do with a woman?  Would you know the first thing?”  Bengal turns, hands describing, exploring her own form in the darkness.  Rounded breasts, hips, curved belly, groin.

“I would love her” is his quiet reply.

Bengal looks surprised.  Eyes narrow, and she turns her head.  “How would you love a woman?  Why so eager?”

Dusty Rose begin to cry again.  “Because I have lost my music.  I am losing my life!  And I need love to find it.”

“STOP IT!”  She screams, raging at the angel's tears.  “Stop  that crying!”

But he cries ever harder.  With an angry sound, Bengal grabs him by his robes.  They tear before her nails and strength, and he falls.  Looming above the sobbing angel, she screams, “What kind of woman would love an angel like you?…  Look at you!  Weak!  Frightened!  How can you expect love?  Look at me!  LOOK AT ME!  Would you expect  love from a real woman?… a woman like me?”

“I would expect love from any who would give it.”  He coughs past his tears.

Bengal looks uncertain.  “Even a creature like me?”

The angel nods.  “A woman like you.”

“I am a beast.  A creature.  A nightcrawler.  My darkness is my reflection and my veil.  With it I see myself and avoid others.  I feed on death, on decay, on blood.  Who would ever love a monster like me?”

Large eyes rise, find, and hold her clear ones.  “I would.”

“Liar.”

“No.”

“Liar!”

“No.  I—”

“LIAR!”  A pale claw lashes out.  The angel screams and falls away.  Feathers rise and begin to fall.  A single wing is torn apart like cobwebs.  Dust fills the air like mist.  Bengal fades in the darkness as Dusty Rose sobs.

“Find your music and your love elsewhere.  Find it among your own kind.”

The darkness vanishes.  And Dusty Rose is alone.  For a time…

“You are ugly for an angel.”  The voice is high, lilting.  Beautiful.

“All angels are beautiful.”  Dusty Rose's reply is quiet.

“Not you,” says a second voice.  “Yours is dirty.  You mar us all.”

“Our beauty is unsurpassed.”  A hand tosses silky hair.  Green light flashes like sunlight upon scales.  “You are ugly.”

Dusty Rose's face looks dirty.  Tears lay down streaks across his powdery skin.  A feather falls from his ruined wing.  “I am an angel.”

“You are ugly.”  The taller angel laughs, his blue eyes shine like beads.

“Angels are beautiful.”  Dusty Rose whimpers, looking from one angel to the other.  He reaches out.  “Help me.”

Emerald Green jerks his silken robes away from the hand and its dust.  His nails and hair glitter.  He is beautiful.  “You... are an ugly angel.  Your presence diminishes us all.”

Royal Blue coughs slightly and picks up a fallen feather.  He eyes Dusty Rose with passing concern.  His skin shines like the night sky.  “You embarrass us.”

“I have lost my music.”

“Then what kind of angel are you?”

“I need love.”

“We are angels.  We are creatures of love.”

“I am dying.”

“How sad.”  Emerald Green smiles over Dusty Rose.  Dusty Rose shudders with sickness, and a cloud of fragrant powder coils upwards.

Royal Blue looks away and coughs.  “I don't care for your troubles.”  He smiles slightly.

Hips sway and caress against Emerald’s.  “But have you seen my hair lately?  It is especially beautiful today.”

Emerald Green nods with appreciation and lust.  “My nails, my hands, my toes.  I have SUCH perfect wings.”  He flexes them for effect.

“You are both beautiful.”  Dusty Rose can only stare.

“Yes, we are beautiful, aren’t we?”  A pale hand caresses a pale face.

Shining lips of jade kiss fingers of indigo.  Dusty Rose shudders and vomits.  Feathers fall.  “Love me, please.”

Royal Blue shakes his head, long hair wisping through the air.  A delicate hand reaches out and plucks another feather from Dusty Rose’s wings.  “We have no love for you.”

Emerald Green slides his hands around the blue angel's waist.  Fingers spread and explore hips and thighs through silk.

“But we are angels...  We are creatures of love.”  Helplessness in his voice.  More feathers fall from his wings.

Emerald Green's eyes glitter, his voice soft and husky.  Royal Blue's eyes have paled with distraction.  “But all angels are beautiful.  So you can't be one.”

Soft lips kiss a soft throat.  Soft hands with green nails explore the body under the robes.  Royal Blue becomes unsteady on his feet.  His eyes close.

“I am beautiful.”  Dusty Rose's voice is uneven.

“You are not.  For a vampire, maybe.  But they are dirty creatures.  Like you.”

“I know of a beautiful vampire…”

“You are stupid,” Royal Blue snaps.  Emerald Green jerks away and then relaxes.  Slowly, coyly, he slides his hands back underneath the robes.  Their bodies press together.

“So much hate.”  Dusty Rose despairs.  His broken wing is nearly bare.  His skin is pale, even under the marred powder.  Tears stain his robes and skin.  Emerald Green and Royal Blue entwine, wings encircling each other.  They do not hear.

“So little love.  So much love, but none… for me.”  He falls upon unsteady hands, shaking elbows.  The bare, crippled wing does not bleed.

The voice rises from the lovers.  “Find your own music, ugly angel.  Find your own love.  Save your own life, but don't do us any favors.”

Dusty Rose collapses in tears.

Emerald Green rises with a gasp.  Dust coils and circles around him.  Both lovers glare at the dying angel.  Dusty Rose bows his head and looks away.  With a silent word, Emerald Green and Royal Blue rise into the air upon shining, perfect wings and vanish.  Their departure coils the dust into straining hands and flutters the dying angel's tattered robes, robes that now look like burial shrouds.

Bengal watches from the darkness.  There is concern in her eyes, and hunger.  Her teeth bite into her lips.  The darkness presses around her.

“Kill him.”

“Drink him.”

“Eat him.”

The voices drift in from all around her.  She frowns and sneers.

“He is already dying.  Let him die.”

“Kill him!”  The voice hisses.  “They are but cattle.”

“He is sick.  There is little life in him.  To kill him is more trouble than it's worth.  Forget him.  Just watch him die.”  Bengal tries to sound convinced and wonders why she isn't.

Thoughtful.  Observant, a voice presses close to her ear.  “We should have killed the other two.  This one is sickened.”

“He has lost his music.  He has no love, and it has left him.  He is dying.  Angels are creatures of love.  They die without it.”

“How should you know?”

Bengal hisses and looks away.  Why should she care?

“Kill him.”

“Drink him.”

“Eat him.”

“NO!  I cannot!”  Why?  Look at him.  Pitiful creature.  Ragged, and wounded, and dying.  She is a creature of hate, but why isn't his suffering bringing her pleasure?

“I want to kill those other two.”

“They were healthy but quick.”

“They are distracted.  Buggering each other right now, I bet.”

“I like the ones like children.  They scream.”

“SILENCE!”  Bengal screams.

“They are nothing but faggots and children.  Pedophiles.  They all wear dresses and make-up.”

“SILENCE!”  Bengal screams again.  Her heart is breaking.

“Kill this one.”

“No.  I cannot.”

“Kill this one.”

“I cannot.  I know this one.”

“All the better—”

“NO!”

“What makes this one special?”  The darkness explores her, probing face, breast, loins.  “What have you done with him?”

“Nothing.”

“Consorting with angels is forbidden.  Do you fuck like they do?  Tell us Bengal.”

Her eyes dart around, frightened.  Worried.  How do they know?  What do they know that she may not even know?  She tries to pull away but cannot.  “He is a friend... of sorts.”  Her voice is casual.  Act surprised and lie.  “We talk.  A lot.  He is lonely.  He appreciates my presence.”

“He is ugly for an angel.  The others have said.”  The voices are offended.  “What have you to say to an angel?  Do you write POETRY?  Do you touch and kiss and fuck?”

“She has kissed him.”

“They are faggots!  I know that!  Theirs is sexuality.  Emotion.  Disgusting.”  Darkness hisses in agreement.  Some recoils away in shock, disgust.  The rest advances.  “Beware the kisses of angels, Bengal.  It is through them that their souls breathe.”

Long fingers touch pale lips, bloodless.  Her clear eyes round.  “What do you mean?”

“Through a kiss... souls meet and exchange.”

“What is his is yours...  What is yours is his.  You become one, united.”

“NO!  That is not possible!”  Turning, she glares at the shuddering mound, the suffering Dusty Rose.  Dust rises in rosy arcs.

“You become one, united.”

“NO!  I have nothing of his.  I gave him nothing of mine!”

“Then kill it, drink it, eat it.  There is no salvation in our souls.  Do not show it towards others.  Kill it.”

Bengal's clear eyes stare at the suffering, dusty mound.  Crippled, in agony, it is still beautiful.  “I’m not sure I can.”

Darkness whips around her, lashing face and breasts, pulling hair.  Hisses of anger assail her ears.  “Then we will…”

“NO!”

“Kill him.”

“Drink him.”

“Eat him.”

“NO!”  Silence.  The darkness moves restlessly.  Bengal crouches and glares.  “If it has to be done.”

“All must eventually die…”

“If it has to be done, I will do it.”

Darkness caresses her pale skin and then shifts away.

Dusty Rose looks up to see her.  His gaunt, haggard face softens.  “I die soon.  This place has no love for me.  My music is gone forever.”

Bengal crouches, her darkness exploring his body.  A feather falls.  “You are an angel.  You find love.”

“There is none here for me.”

“But you are an angel!”  Desperation, concern.  Her arms enfold his thin frame.  His fingers flutter against her skin.

His muddy eyes blink.  “I am borne from the heat of a sunburst... a Dantean inferno.”

“And I am raised from a bloated body... like a returning Savior.”

“Which of us, Bengal, which of us is divine?  And which of us is infernal?”

“Divine?”  Sorrow fills her heart.  Soon, he will not be within her life.  He will be gone.  Bloody tears fall from clear eyes.  They stain his face and mix with dust.  “The one with the most love, Dusty Rose.”

Weakness.  His face slowly rocks away.  Long hair tousles across his cloudy eyes.  “Angels are creatures of love.”

Bengal smiles ruefully.  “Vampires have no love.  You must be the more divine, my friend.”

Dusty Rose sobs.  Weak fingers try to brush away his hair.  Bengal helps.  “If I did not know better, Bengal.  I would say you had the more love.”

“I have never had love.  It is unknown to me.  I have never met one with more love than you… or one with more need for it.  If I had any love in this still heart, I would give it to you.”  And I love you, she mouths silently, even as that is impossible.

“I love you, Bengal.”  Her still heart beats.  More tears run, and he tastes them.  “You shed a tear?  For what?”

“I shed a tear for you, angel, for you are at my mercy.”

What had they exchanged with their kiss?  Love.  Death.  Acceptance.  More or less.  An infinity of possibilities.  For her, his love.  For him?  Only death.

Dawn breaks for the first time as love fills her heart.  The light of love; it is born in-between them.  This light does not burn.  “Look, Dusty Rose, look!  Light!  Now there is love.”

The ruined angel smiles, for the first time, and looks towards the new light.  “Yes, now there is love… somewhere.  We are no longer alone, Bengal.  There is love here!  We can find it.”  He basks in the light and seems stronger even as he is dying.  “And my music has returned!”

Bengal bows her head over him and smiles as the angel begins to sing.  The last feather falls away from his wings, and Dusty Rose shudders with sickness.  His voice is weak and plaintive.  His song, a lone instrument playing to empty indifference.  Bengal gently takes up his shaking body and holds it close.  She can feel his ebbing warmth sucked away by her cold.  He nuzzles her breast, and she his neck.

Salvation is not part of her nature.  Every instinct within her screams to take his life and blood.  Every emotion wants to caress him, to save him.  She bends low and kisses him long.  Beware an angel's kiss.  It is through them that their souls breathe.  She gives him more of her.  He gives more of him.  He stops his song.  “Please help me,” he gasps.

“You help me,” she whispers, his song still in her ears.  Her cheek brushes his.  His dust, like from the wings of a moth, stains her pure skin.

“Protect my life.  I have my song.  I must find love to live.  Now protect my life.”

Her teeth tickle the tender flesh of his neck.  Slowly, slowly.

He shudders with pleasure and chill.  She smiles.  “Give me your life, Dusty Rose.”

Dusty Rose closes his eyes and breathes with difficulty.  “No, Bengal.  You mustn't.  Our kiss.  We are bound.  For one to die is for both to die.”

“Are you sure of that?”  Her tongue tastes his flesh there, the sweet powder so sweet.  His limbs stiffen with fear and pleasure.

“It is what I believe, Bengal.  Please!”  Desperation?

Her mouth kisses and tastes the soft skin there.  Her cold breath tightens it and chills the angel.  He clasps her shoulders, helpless.  “I do not fear death, angel.  Win or lose, I do not fear death.  It is what I am.  If I am to die with you, then I die.”

“Her mouth closes, and Dusty Rose inhales with pain.  She smiles as she drinks, as the angel's life is slowly surrendered.  Bright red blood runs down his dusty skin like a vampire's tears.

His mouth an open, helpless scream, Dusty Rose pleads, “Please don’t.  Not now.  I have only now found my music.  I must find love to live!”

Bengal pauses in her drinking.  “I love you, angel.”

And Dusty Rose’s eyes close.

© John Lawson 2001