One evening, a stroke of wings woke me up, rescuing me from my recurring nightmare. The darkness engulfing my room did not allow me to identify the winged being that had awakened me in good time. From then on, the whistling of wings came to my rescue every night until the nightmare that had accompanied me since I was young left me for good. For the first time in a long time, I could sleep for seven hours straight and wake up without feeling tired.
One day I saw it while waiting for the traffic light to change from red to green: a humanoid figure dressed in black from head to toe, with a large pair of black wings on its back. The light changed to green, but the figure stretched its hand, ordering me to stand still. A car ran through the red light at high speed and rammed a bus. Had it not been for the angel, my car would have suffered the brutal impact that killed the driver and injured countless bus passengers.
Next Tuesday, I left home for my evening jog in the city park. Halfway through my usual route, I saw the angel with its wings spread, blocking my passage. He advanced toward me with his finger pointing in the opposite direction. I obeyed without hesitation. On Wednesday evening, I saw on the news that someone had murdered a young man in the park. The killer had stabbed him multiple times.
So when, on Sunday morning, the angel woke me up around six a.m. and threw the car keys in my hands, I immediately got dressed and got behind the wheel. The dark angel occupied the back seat and urged me to start the car.
I drove for two hours, with the angel nodding his head, sometimes to the left, sometimes to the right, showing me the way. We kept going on the highway without me having the slightest idea what the destination would be. Only when the angel told me to turn to an old back road did I realize where we were heading: my hometown, which I had left twenty years before as soon as I came of age.
We stopped a hundred yards away from the church where I had been an altar boy. The townspeople in their Sunday clothes were slowly making their way into the church nave. The angel told me to follow them. I went in and sat on the first pew on the right.
As the elderly priest celebrated mass, I began to remember the names of liturgical objects that I had long forgotten: paten, cruet, pyx, and censer. After the flock had received the consecrated bread and wine and the Ite, missa est proclaimed, the church emptied quickly. Only I remained seated. The angel hovered over the altar, imitating Christ on the cross, with a sarcastic smirk.
The priest, already out of his vestments, came out of the sacristy and examined the pulpit and the altar. He seemed satisfied with the inspection. As he looked toward the back of the church, he noticed me. He approached me quietly, taking short strides, and I saw a flash of recognition in his eyes.
— Uriel...?
The angel materialized beside him and began to sing a song in his ear. I sang too.
— Your god is nothing / your god is nowhere / your god wasn’t there to protect me — we sang in unison.
— Uriel, forgive me, please — the priest pleaded.
We continued to sing, the angel and I.
— Your god is a fallen idol / your god knows nothing / your god wasn’t there to comfort me.
— Please, Uriel!
I left the church by myself. As I reached the car, I heard the bells starting to ring. Outside the belfry, the priest was swaying with open mouth and tongue hanging out, his eyes bulging and his crotch soaked in blood, the bell rope wrapped around his neck, and I could see through the stained glass windows the ever-growing flames swallowing the church with a demonic voracity.
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