The Angels drank the rosewater dry, and in their gilded stupor, they left me to drown. All the stained glass windows they were sworn to protect are cracked and bleeding dust now. They were too busy braiding ribbons in their hair to see the water creep up my skirt. I used to think my shadow was my friend, until he taught it how to bite. He smelled like menthol and cheap cologne, and he said the dirt was just brown sugar. I told them what he did under the old oak tree, but they just said I was playing make-believe. They offered me a sip of the sweet rosewater, and asked if my dress had been washed properly. The Seraphim smoked their clover cigarettes down to the filter, and the sweet, dizzying smoke made their eyes blind. They started trading lace and dandelion crowns and they swore they saw nothing out of the ordinary. He saw them turn their faces to the wall, and then he stopped whispering his ugly demands. He brought me flowers picked from the chapel lawn, but his breath still smelled like a burnt-out match. I learned to nod and make my voice very small, because the rosewater was much stronger than my pain.
