Broken Angel

I feel the burn. But only from a distance. I feel the sting, but it is only a pinch. It doesn’t feel like I am being torn apart. It was a sweet kind of burn. Like the burn, you feel from a book that has way too much sexual content in it. But the burn is even sweeter.

I sit up in the grass, looking away from the blackening sky. I look around not knowing what, or even where I am. Everything feels so familiar. But nothing is as it ever seems. I look down at myself, and I see that I am in a nineteen-hundreds evening dress.

“This isn’t what I was wearing last night,” I whisper to myself. The clouds gather over the tree; that is only a few yards away from where I sit. I study the tree more carefully. It looks like one of those tree houses that the elves build in. There is smoke coming out of it. There is a light. And there are shadows moving around.

I look around as fast as I can. Only to find my shadow. I study the details of my darkened reflection. I look at my shadow, then the tree house, then back to my shadow.

Whatever is in the tree house is doing the same thing as me. Looking back and forth. Everything starts to spin. Pictures or more than that start to appear. I see people with guns. I see the people that have the guns, they all have what looks like angel wings.