Because of Love and Other Four Letter Words

And so, like a phoenix from the ashes, he rose once more in the arms of his beloved. His skin burned in agony, red hot blisters coating his back and staining the ground with his blood. Uriel pressed Azazel's head deeper into his chest, perfuming him with the scent of his musk. Their sweat melted together, dripping down their bodies and mixing in the forbidden dance.

"Be strong, my love," Uriel whispered. "Your repentance shall soon end."

Azazel knew he had to believe him, for it was the only way the agony would stop. He kept those words centered in himself, allowing them to burrow deeper into his chest and pushing out all else. He could feel the beginnings of those sins start to push against his back, driven by the force of their love penetrating him. The stretch of his skin was excruciating but he knew that love would heal his wounds. Love is what made the pain bearable.

Mrs. Carter tapped one of her nails against her desk, the long acrylics making that distinct clicking sound that made Zachariah's feet tap faster. He hated how long her nails were, the blood-red color she chose to paint them, the gaudy diamonds on her accent finger. And, most of all, he hated the way she would tap them on any surface as she struggled to find what to say. If Sunday school had taught him anything, silence was golden. But, according to her, silence meant guilt and guilt meant awkward conversations that spanned far past the study hall block.

Her fingers lifted off the table and came to a comfortable rest on her lap.

"Let's start with your family. Tell me about them."

She gave a gentle smile with her red lips pulled up slightly and her teeth hidden behind them.

Zachariah knew better than to trust that, however, for her eyes were much darker than they let on.

"Who do you live with?" She began.

"My mom," Zachariah stated. "I used to live with my older brother, but he moved out for college. So, now it's just her and my dad."

Mrs. Carter smiled at herself, thinking she was clever.

"How is it living with your parents? Do you like it?"

A dumb question. Was one supposed to like living with their parents? It would be like saying you like drinking water. That you like taking medicine. That you like doing things out of obligation even though we all know that you would rather be anywhere else.

But that's not what she wanted to hear. So, Zachariah offered her a shrug instead.

"It's okay, I guess." He added for good measure.

Mrs. Carter nodded along to pretend as if she was listening, though her fingers ghosted above the table miming her tapping. She was growing impatient.

"What about your father?" She asked. "I know in our previous talks you said that he's a very religious man."

The speed at which she said his name was enough to make Zachariah's heart pound faster. He kept his eyes on the floor tiles, continuously following along until he reached a wall.

"I mean, I guess? He's always taking us to church and stuff like that."

Zachariah did not have to look off the floor to know that she was close to pouncing.

"Well, it explains the names you chose for this story. You must go to church quite often."

"Quite often" was an understatement. The typical days were Wednesday's afterschool and Sunday mornings, but that did not count for the random visits they would pay to pray away any evil that took place throughout the week.