Black to White

Black

Who is she? His head is roaring, confused, afraid, enraged. He sees her eyes, but his brother stands between them, catching his wrists, stopping the knife aimed at her demon heart. Looking up, deep into eyes like their father's, he begs to understand. Calm down? Wait? But why? She is what they kill; she is a creature; she is evil. He lets his brother wrest the blade away, and he staggers back, pacing, shouting, running away from what can never be explained.

Smoke

It pours from the poor bastard's mouth, pooling on the tiles, sinking and scorching the ground until it fades into nothing but black smudges, drawn forth by his brother's outstretched hand. Who are you? He stares at the traces of the demon on the floor, looks up at his brother, sees the boy with the floppy hair who thought the world of him. Are you still in there? Blood trickles from his brother's nostril; that worries him, one large hand raised to his brother's forehead that's squinting with pain.

Bloody mouth

As the confusion settles, he looks for his brother, his burden, his family. The one he can trust; the one he loves. On the dusty wooden planks, he sees him kneeling, and his heart rips. He's paralyzed by pain, he stares, waits, says nothing as his little, huge brother raises his head from the demon's neck, chin stained and dripping scarlet. What have you become?

Bloody hand

A red slice in the angel's palm; two fingers dipped in life move swiftly, forming sigils he doesn't recognize. He doesn't know what's happening. Where is he? He waits in a room, an empty room, a comfortable room, but for what? He doesn't trust them, anyway. The angel has no time to explain; two damp fingers touch his forehead and the room is gone, the angel is gone, he is away and safe and alone and bereft, two fingerprints his only sign of his friend.

Feathers

That noise, a fluttering, flapping sound of wind and fabric, gives him pause, and he looks to the passenger seat. He hears it so often, of late; by a lake in his dreams, on a bench in a park, behind him in a junkyard, beside him in his car. The angel is here, standing, sitting, staring, speaking, healing. What makes that sound? Maybe the trenchcoat he never removes. Maybe something invisible. Does this angel have wings?

White

Sparks fly across the warehouse, lightbulbs overpowered and exploding into glass shards and flaring light. The building shakes, shudders, unable to contain what walks through its doors. Through electrical mayhem, he watches a figure approach, pierced by blue eyes, pinned by confusion. Who are you? Why do you follow me? What do you want? He is saved, he is grateful, he is unsure, he is alive. He meets an angel.