She wanted to be an angel. A spiritual being that were only ever spoke of in fairytales and folklore of death and heaven.
But something went wrong.
She’d fallen into the deepest pits that could have been considered hell. It could have even been considered worse than hell. Her wings were not white. She did not shine from the glow of the sun as she soared through the heavens. She did not usher souls into the gates of the greatest and most holy of places to rest eternally.
She had been born as a purity. Broken into a husk. Raised by shadows. Formed into a monster.
She had become an angel as she’d always dreamed as child, but one with blackened, frayed wings. One that was filled with atrocities and felt the Void course through her very veins. One that ushered souls into an eternity of pain, agony, never to feel the sweet kiss of the Light above.
She was an angel of death. She was a dying light.
