fiction writing.
She is the kind of professional who doesn’t have to say “trust me” for you to trust her. In this world of modern purgatory where technology is the new brimstone, her kind stands as the few remaining angels. Bristled in her white laboratory coat that reaches down below her knees, she looks so purified. So beautiful, and so untainted by the mortal destruction that goes on around her. All the screams, moans, and beseeching. All of that hasn’t gotten to her yet. So... fresh.
Bound by the restraints, my eyes seek to meet hers, but she averts my gaze. Instead, she stands there at the very corner of the padded room, waiting as the muscled orderly thrusts an uncapped needle into my veins and pumps me full of paralyzing poison. I do not care - for only time separates us, and in hellfire time is nothing. My angel, she too will perish in time. Forty, maybe fifty years. Soon enough, she will be with me. In hell, where we all belong.
Even my angels.
Bound by the restraints, my eyes seek to meet hers, but she averts my gaze. Instead, she stands there at the very corner of the padded room, waiting as the muscled orderly thrusts an uncapped needle into my veins and pumps me full of paralyzing poison. I do not care - for only time separates us, and in hellfire time is nothing. My angel, she too will perish in time. Forty, maybe fifty years. Soon enough, she will be with me. In hell, where we all belong.
Even my angels.