Fallen Angel

By George Woodruff



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He sat there, exhausted but unable and unwilling to go to bed, as he knew that sleep would elude him this morning. He'd been up for 18 hours on less then six hours of sleep, but as he realised that the morning was soon upon him he reasoned that he could at least make her breakfast and see her out the door to work.

He thought on his life of late, the frustration, the sadness, the abuse and neglect. Whereas he used to be a jovial soul, lately he felt like a fallen angel, lost to the heavenly host by reason of his overexposure to the enemy in the battle against the ancient evil.

He sat up with a start at that thought. Yes. He realised that it was true. He had fought against prejudice and blind fear against the falsity of stereotypes and now, when he had hoped that he might be accorded a respite, a hero's welcome, he returned to his home not to welcome but to a Vietnam veteran's homecoming.

'No wonder,' he thought, 'that the poor bastards sank into sin and degradation,' his thoughts were interrupted by the start of "Breakfast At Tiffany's" by Deep Blue Something. He remembered back to the start of his divorce. Everything seemed going so well, he had acquiesced to her demands and presumed that the spirit of cooperation would continue when he wanted to see his children. Little did he realise that not only was he being robbed of his means of living, he was being divested of his options with regards to his children.

He wondered if there was any point in going on. He was such a disappointment it seemed in everyone's life. The combination of exhaustion, caffeine and sleep deprivation began to play tricks on his minds. The next thing he knew, he was sitting there, his arm leaking blood as the sun slid into the sky. The blood loss filled him with a dreamy euphoria. He could see the world spreading out around him like the growing pool of blood that seeped from his ravaged arm. He fell away from the world, back into the heavens but instead of rejoining his brother seraphim he encountered only the dead cold of space. And as the horror of this situation blossomed in his mind, he realised; you can never go home. And he cried, tears that froze in the wind of their descent and covered his mortal remains in a fine blanket of snow. This was the last sight that registered in his soul before it froze fast in the depth of darkening space.


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Fallen Angel ©2000 by George Woodruff

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