The Last Angel

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On a hot summer’s night the roasted insides of the last angel screamed with hunger. Fists of hot pain pounded his stomach in, their claws tearing, ripping, gouging, until tears were wrenched from his eyes. His guts, so petrifyingly empty, convulsed.

He couldn’t stop himself.

Oh god, he couldn’t stop himself.

She lay there, a vision of silver wisps and dove-white skin. She lay still. Her breath came in little clouds of wintry bliss that reminded him of home.

Innocent.

A child to be protected.

Her blood sang to him.

“Forgive me,” he croaked.

The fire in his belly laughed.

(Image credit: Zeynel Cebeci)

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