An Angel Dies

Prologue

AN: Have you ever read Maximum Ride? I have. I remember picking up the first book in a Walmart bookstore, reading the first twenty pages, and then demanding to my mother that she buy me it (and yes mom I'll do some chores to pay for it, goodness gracious) and I was hooked ever since. (Unfortunately, the series fell in quality later on to me, but the first book was still remarkable.) I suppose you could say this is inspired by Maximum Ride in that 1. The main character has wings. 2. The main character is kinda sassy. That's where the similarites end. (At least I hope.) The thing I disapproved most about the series is that it never explored any of the undoubtedly profound psychological effects of being on the run constantly. I hope I can change that with this story. Enjoy.

~P R O L O G U E~

When you ask someone what their favorite time of day is, do they say morning? Evening? Twilight, that curious time where darkness bleeds into light and everything seems gray yet bright at the same time?

Do they say night?

That would be my answer.

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There is something about the night that has always drawn me in. It is wild, untamed, exotic. It creates a backdrop for the fireflies' lights, it emphasizes the glow of the moon and stars. It tells us when to rest, when to stop and recover from the day's events.

It hides things in its expansive darkness.

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Hiding, I have learned, is a curious subject. If you hide something by directly plunging it into something else, it will still create waves, much like a pebble dropped into water, and thus, it leaves evidence. And if there is evidence, then it can be found again, and doesn't that just defeat the purpose of hiding it in the first place?

Hiding is more of a distraction method. Make them look at something else, or make them believe they are seeing something else, and it will stay hidden.

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If you had wings, what would you do? Where would you go? What beautiful, terrifying things would you see?

It seems strange to me that I would be given a tool for freedom yet be restrained so tightly. You can train a falcon, you know, with jesses and hoods and leather straps to keep it perched, docile, on your wrist. You can teach it to hunt, and to return when called. You can teach it to sit still as you examine it, prod its glossy feathers, admire and fear that sharp, hooked beak.

I envision myself as that falcon sometimes, and then wonder, 'How does that falcon feel about its training?'

I do not know the answer.

It makes me even more determined never to be that falcon.

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So... I'm still pretty new to this whole wattpad thing. Please comment, vote, or add to your reading list... (Is that what they say on here?)