Call me your Entity

Chapter 1

At this point in time Camael and I have returned to our dwellings, the nest that the archangel may live in is not something I would torture myself into even trying to describe. I have been preparing myself to begin the journey to Heaven with the angel. In hours of thought I can't straighten out my mind and decide-a trek to God land with a daddy's boy angel, or another year on earth with these rats. My mind has gone astray from what I should have been considering, however. Obviously there is no consideration needed. I'm not sure exactly what will happen while I'm gone, being brutally honest and painfully obvious, I have never been successful, one part because I've been occupied on earth, and 99 parts because I don't know how. I'm getting off track. Another dreadful sunrise, in roughly 27 minutes I will witness the last one of my existence here. 82,142 occurrences of the gas ball showing its face is a plentiful amount, and frankly more than I would have desired to see. Camael and I will be painfully reunited at daybreak in the alley where we met. From there I can't say what will transpire, the archangel has failed to tell me how he plans to relocate us to Heaven. For the average angel, this would be a simple task. Camael, however, will have to think of a way to break into Heaven, forgive me for assuming, but I believe that his ability to transport himself anywhere he so chooses has been suspended. I stumble over the copious pile of beer cans and bottles, kicking a few trounced tins against the stained wall and shattering an empty bottle of whiskey. I stop and rest my hands on the windowsill, or what is left of it at least. The nails are curled in every direction and rusted. The wood is rotting and discolored, barley holding onto the windows, which are cracked and growing something that looks like a cross between rust and mildew. This beautiful home is the only thing I will regret leaving behind. It's much lovelier than Heaven will be. I'm positioned there, watching the sun rise. I'm staring out when I see the top of the orange star fold over the horizon. I fit my mask over my face and squint my eyes. The horridness of the solar mass is shockingly bright this disgusting morning. There isn't a spot of clouds in the sky, allowing everything to be luminous. Monday, April fifteenth, 7:52 AM, daylight has just begun, signaling my time to be on my way out to the bar. I slump to the breaking door and caress the golden knob before turning it gently. Lovely creaks and groans whisper out from the hinges and I step out, my laced and belted combat boots thumping on the concrete outside. I reach to the back of my neck and raise up my hood, pulling it over my head to hide my face. I sulk along the street, secretly hunting down a young and fairly rich looking human. If I'm going to get drunk I am going to need the funds to do so. I stop at an intersection and I notice a tall and lanky blonde girl, assumedly seventeen years of age. The ends of her hair is dyed a repulsive shade of hot pink. With her, she carries a large bag, appearing to be one of those ridiculously overpriced bags from leading brands. This should be too easy, I could swear she weighs no more than 90 pounds. I snap on latex gloves and slip around another path, allowing me to sneak in front of her. Her face is capricious, her facial expressions being the polar opposites of each other, smiling and carefree to terrified and hopeless. At least she isn't trying to look tough like Camael. I levitate my hand up a bit and flick my finger towards the back of a building, her paralyzed eyes permanently locked on my face, she slowly walks backwards. I push her against the vandalized brick wall with some force, but not excessive. I don't want to hurt her too bad right off the bat. I have to terrify her first. Taint her until her soul is black and her heart is cold. The first part comes as it always does. The hood slips off, and my face is uncovered. To her, I have the head of an Antarctic Giant Petrel with a curled, blood splattered beak. My arms have crimson stained rows of feathers growing off of them and I have extra thin, black feathers above my eyes, shaped to look like scowling eyebrows. I smile and pull out a combat tomahawk. She shrieks and her eyes widen to a size I didn't even know was possible as I hold her right arm against the bricks and dangle the tomahawk in front of her face. I tighten my brow and glare straight at her for roughly four seconds until I can see her iris quivering. I grip the handle of my blade and bring it to her pale skin. I can hear her throaty wine of anguish as I carve deep into her smooth flesh. Her face is disgusting, black mascara percolating on her cheeks and her eyes quickly reddening and inflaming. I breathe a nauseated laugh. As I am finishing my carving, I look back at her. Gross. Saliva and tears are dripping off of her face. Her eyes shift to her mutilated limb "S-suic-cide?" she breathes out in agony. Blood is rushing down her arms, almost so much that reading it was impossible. Easy enough, I press down hard onto her arm and rub the excess blood away, but she is already so weak that all she can do is breathe and squeak a bit. The bleeding continues, but less flow this time. I kick her stomach, forcing her to the ground, then I step on her already mutilated arm. Then I gaze into her swollen eyes and slowly reach for her other arm. My hand fondles the opposite wrist and her breath gets shorter and sharper. I hold down her arm and switch my tomahawk to the blade shaped like an axe. Her pupils are dilated hugely and her body is shaking. I slowly bury the edge into her wrist, and drag it vertically across her veins a few inches, then back to the top and down. From there I watch her eyes turn gray as I make tiny lines on the remaining space of her arms. I grab the money from her wallet, pull off my gloves, which are slipped back into my pocket, and leave her to be found as a suicide victim. I continue down the street down to my favorite bar and sit down at the long table. I demand the usual hard liquor and stun the bartenders with my drinking skills. Petty humans can't take as much alcohol as I can. After I've downed as much whiskey as they will allow, I leave the "suicidal" girl's money on the table, however much it may be, and practically fall out the door. I was forced to over-intoxicate myself, partly to show off, mostly to keep myself from murdering Camael later in the day. I smile deviously as I walk past the fallen church and admire the "tragedy" of yesterday. Yellow tape sporting the word "CAUTION: CRIME SCENE" repeated over... and over... I must have left the gasoline tanks by the church. Oh well, like they can outsmart my criminal genius! I non-conspicuously pretend to examine the little burnt to shit dealio while internally convince myself not to succumb to the temptation, and stay out if the area. As blatantly entertaining as it would be to weasel my way in and bring forth more dumbfucking terror for the malformed excuses of multi-cellular organ formations, I have an angel to keep happy until we depart from this dysfunctional mass of polar pricklish jerkshits. Oh boy I'm feeling great today. The time is now 1:04, meaning I still have seven hours and nine minutes until I team up with the moronic and pretentious maggot. Seven hours and nine minutes to waste while trying not to kill anyone or burn anything down. I already entertained myself by killing someone, however, so what's the harm in keeping myself under control by killing a few more? The deed is done, it could be repeated to make my life more bearable. Oh this is difficult, I don't really know the mindset of anybody with good morals, let alone an angel. After much consideration, I figured it would be best to stay as much on the angel's good side as much as possible. Now wait. This is an odd state of mind that I have almost absent-mindedly slipped into, isn't it? I would have never even thought that I would think like this. I'm trying to impress an Archangel? Make it happy? Make it PLEASED with my actions? At second thought these disdainful beings may not be as vacuous as I preliminarily believed them to be. I only hope that I haven't been subconsciously forced upon this action. I am undoubtedly far more intelligent than Camael, as well as being more educated in the subject of target manipulation, so how could he have done this with such ease? If I knew any better I would assume he did it with no thought into the matter, it almost seems that he does this with no added effort, like a natural instinct. Are they all like this, I wonder? All from the same insipid breed, maybe their unintentional trickery is hereditary? Though adding thought from past experiences, things such as mind stated are not genetic. One son is a genius while the other is mentally handicapped. One daughter is witty and quick-thinking and the other is slow and tends to stay quiet. But then where, I wonder, does depression and other mental situations of the sort come in? Those are very clearly hereditary, seeing as entire lines of families many generations old share a common... malfunction in every generation. In animals this shows all too well, for an entire species they will share the same mental state. The angels are comparable to this, the archangels being a family in the angelic species. Could it be just the archangels that are this clever then? the entirety of the day goes on like this, I drag myself from thought to thought, so entranced with my theories that I barely noticed that I had sobered up. by the time I pulled myself out of thought long enough to contemplate the time, it was neighboring the hour in which I pull my dark and beautiful self out of my un-preserved hold to associate myself with the winged pest. I pay mind to the seconds and I begin to misdoubt my decision to accompany Camael to the "Holy Land", no doubt he will be flaunting his make-believe strength, trying to prove himself worthy of my prescience, that or trying to scare me out of picking fights with him. A pathetic strategy, really.