[trash witch]

A child with wings, mottled, bruised; she tried to pick herself off the floor, trying to raise herself from the oh so familiar smell of copper, such soft skin stained red, mingling with an extravagant purple. "I got lucky." She whispered, hand pushing against the wall, still trying to drag herself from the floor; his drunken self had been sated this time, somewhat easily... She could still breathe, staring at the walls that had begun to double in her vision; had she asked for it this time? The conversation in her head jumbled, the words fleeting, leaving her to dig for them, what she had said wrong. Leaning against the wall, her legs shook, barely able to hold her as she made her way to the bathroom, to ask the mirror what he had left this time. The lights flickered, blinding in their greeting; trembling fingers locked the door. Afraid, the mirror was her friend, her enemy. It told the truth, the truth she tried to ignore, but had to find, to see. Propping herself on the porcelain sink, gazing at her own reflection she whispered. "Mirror mirror, on the wall..." Lucky. The bruises had already begun to show, skin taut, swelling, expanding the tinted red. This was okay, wasn't it? Normal?

It was familiar now, the tenderness of her freshly bruised skin. That ever so lovely scarlet stain, life was normal, wasn't it? Those wings, she kept wishing, hoping; she needed them more than anything in the world. And as a door slammed, she winced, teeth sinking into her lip, flushing it white. "YOU FUCKING WHORE." The same words, flushed with anger, alcohol; whatever it was, all the same. The door began to rattle, shortly after the harsh stomping rang through the halls. A door was only as strong as the lock holding it. Mindlessly, she stared into the mirror, silent; unmoving as they door began to thump. It wasn't worth crying, worth garnering pity. So she stared, lost; even as the door burst open, as fingers ensnared and ripped her hair; she stared. She'd find her own wings, she'd make them bloom.

An angel was only as lovely as their adorned wings, their crowning grace. So it had been found, finally, she realized. The living, the miserable, they can't have wings, that lovely adorning light. It was time to say goodbye to it; the alcohol tainted breath, the gently burning bruises. Wishing for her wings accomplished nothing, it was the wrong way, no. She'd pluck them from the very sky, she'd steal her crown. As she stepped upon the creaking chair, a smile hung upon her lips. Life was ugly, miserable, she didn't want it any more. And as the noose tightened itself around her velvet skin, she smiled, ever so soft... Happy, yes, that's what it was. With a flick of her foot, she swayed from the ceiling. Her wings, she'd taken them down from the heavens, claimed them. As she swayed, it was beautiful; that smile rivalled the sun's glory.

[THE TRUE JIN]

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thank you for the daily helping of angst