Golden Hour

Wings rearranged themselves, windows contorted, levels shifted. The gargoyles seemed to move the slightest through the curtains of snow. I felt pinned by their gaze.

The wretched music continued. My terror subsided to a moment of surreal fascination, and through the haze of my mind, I realized I couldn't feel my feet. I was freezing. Numb. If I didn't get inside soon, I would get frostbite.

Inside the Grim Reaper's Cenobite pad. Yeah right.

A dark muttering came from the hedges. I backed into a snowbank and crouched behind it. For a second I thought it was the Devil, horned with cloven feet. The blurred figure held a string of Christmas lights that blinked cheerily despite their surroundings. He howled as he tripped over them.

A door slammed in the distance, the mansion rearranged, and in a lonely window, bright lights suddenly appeared.

"He does not have a Christmas tree," I said darkly. "That's impossible. It's four months until Christmas – it's August! And why is there SNOW."

I crept onwards to the mansion, amazed I hadn't been caught. Then I remembered this was probably like a lobster trap. It looked like a house on the outside, but inside was a cage fitted just for me. And it wasn't like Sam- Morgoth needed guards. Only Pallor would have been idiot enough to cross him, provided he was bribed by literature.

Yards from the mansion, I questioned why I was here. Skeletons held a ball in the attic. The mansion's stone face was mortared with graves. I stood a yard from the entrance, an intimidating sweeping thing with a portico that bested the White House. Devils and fantastical beasts were carved into its wooden pillars. Wolves swallowed the crenelate. It was like a pipe dream from Hell.

The door knocker yawned. It was a brass lion.

"Ah, a midnight snack. My master must have had surplus-"

I whipped out my Nerf gun before he could open his eyes. The darts sealed his eyelids shut. Another lodged in his mouth, gagging his roars.

"Sorry, buddy," I said to the irate fixture. I doused my machete in holy water. "My god it's freezing- oh, a porch swing?" I tested it. "I've always wanted one of these..." My feet dragged on the iced flagstones. I stared forlornly at the door. I really didn't want to go in. As in I'd rather be stuck in Biostatistics Exam Purgatory until Kingdom Come than face what lay behind it.

I remained in my indecisive state for a while, fidgeting with my bag. My machete lay forgotten at my feet. What was I going to do? Barge in there and demand what the hell had happened? Ask for my- my what back? Purity? Innocence? Sanity? I hadn't had any of those to begin with.

I'd found the normal world boring, after all. He was right: I could have run away. I could have just ignored him. I had free will, supposedly. Just say no to drugs.

I'd talked to the preacher during Confession this summer when Mo was in the hospital, about sin and defilement. I asked what he thought it was. He said it was being away from God. I didn't even know if there was one and didn't much care anyways. Well, I had not cared before this.

I sat there on the swing, wondering if He had always been dead. A dark voice came from within. I sighed, picked up the machete and dragged my feet down the stairs. I half-heartedly hid, nose running and sleepy. I wanted to go home. A statue garden flanked the porch, so I sat in the lap of an angel. They were just more recycled gravestones, like Sam had set up a museum for forgotten souls. A wayward home for orphans.

She was a waif of a thing, poor girl. Underfed and unloved. Icicles hung from her eyes like she was crying. Her nose had fallen off, so I made her one of snow.

I peered over the hiding place of her wings. The door slammed open. A combat boot emerged. I looked down at my own same exact boots and grimaced. Sam stalked out onto the porch, bottle of Jack Daniel's whiskey in hand. He was unkempt and wore black sweatpants. He looked like a wastrel, with a junkie's sunken cheeks and hollow stare.

He stumbled to the porch swing, rain owl wings dragging on the ground behind him. His black hair was chopped short and metal piercings flashed on his face. He slammed back a drink and sighed.

"Existence," he lamented. He swung his legs onto the swing and lay down spread-eagle.

I was turning into a snow man. He, however, looked like he was burning. The alcohol probably helped. He ran his hands through his hair listlessly, then picked at the ice on the swing. I gave the angel I sat on a uni-brow.

The rustle of wings came from the roof. I gaped, looking up to see golden Raphael dive-bomb onto the porch. He wore a pilot hat and jacket over his sandals and tunic. He was carrying a fast food bag. From it he pulled a bucket of KFC chicken and put the rest of his purchase aside.

Sam didn't react to the archangel. He lit a cigarette, smoked it, and pretended Raphael didn't exist. Raff floated cross-legged in the air, peering at the Reaper. He attempted to make conversation.

"Hey, buddy. I got the spiked eggnog. I'm sure it will cheer you up-"

"Women are vile creatures of unreason." Sam grated. His voice was rough and weary. There were dark circles under his eyes. "The holidays are upon us in four short months, and I'm going to spend them alone. She's gonna break up with me, Raff. I'm making up for lost time!"

Raff munched his chicken and attempted blitheness: "You're always alone on Christmas, Sam."

Sam put out the cigarette on his wrist. "They're deaf to logic. Deaf to it." He sat up, reached for the bottle, and took another swig. Growling, he pushed it on the archangel. Raphael looked at it like it was poisoned.

"Callous, heartless wenches," Sam continued. "Why do I even bother."

"I'm not sure. Why do you?"

"You're not helping Raff."

"Well, I'm supposed to be a hindrance to you."

Sam gave him the look of death. Raphael sighed in annoyance.

"Are you sure she's the girl? How do you know it's really her?"

Sam's face was stony. "I could tell by the light in her eyes."

Raphael tsk-ed. "Oh really. And what exactly did you tell her?"

"Everything."

Raff unleashed a stream of curses: "You really do have brimstone for brains, buddy!"

"How could I not?" Corpseboy demanded. "I didn't know it. Not until I tasted her heart's blood. I thought she was just- peculiar... a simulacrum of Chavah,"

Raphael shuddered. "Oh-kay, congratulations buddy, you just completely grossed me out. Upchuck on the K.F.C. Sweet Lord, you demons disgust me."

Sam eyed Raff's bucket of chicken. "It's more palatable than that greasy aberration."

Raphael narrowed his eyes. "I did a fly-through, Boniface, so I could come comfort your wallowing ass. I'm the Angel of Healing, so appreciate me. Heaven knows you don't deserve me."

"I don't need your shoulder to weep on," Samael grumbled.

"Then why am I here? For the feng shui? Your depression shits buckets of rain. The fifth heaven is overflowing, Sam."

Death sighed, kneading his brow. "It's just..." he said through gritted teeth.

Raphael perked up. He clapped his hands together and nodded encouragingly. "Yes, Sam! Your feelings. How do you feel?"

"I don't know!"

"That's a start then."

Sam sharpened his scythe so aggressively the whetstone sparked against it. His eyes bored into the ground. "I thought I had lost her, Raphael. To suddenly have her back this past year and a half, young again, as if nothing had changed..." He dabbed his eyes with his sleeves, trying to stifle a sob.

"You're... crying?" Raphael asked, dumbstruck. His wings furled out in shock. "Oh- okay. Good. I've never seen you like this before. It means you really do feel something. Wow. Just- just let it out, Sam." He patted him awkwardly on the back. Sam's soot-colored wings hung dejectedly by his side. He let his scythe fall to the ground and glared at it.

Raff ventured a hug. Death sat like a mausoleum statue. Gog and Magog flew from inside and landed on his shoulders.

"Brother," he said.

"Yeah, Sam?"

"This love we are supposed to feel. As angels. I fear it kills us."

"Erm. Well. I think you're in a very tender situation right now, and-"

"I have corrupted her."

Gabriel's eyes bulged. "You...?"

"Yes."

"She...?"

"Yes."

"Like in Genesis?"

"Yes."

"Holy golden cow."

They sat together in silence. Sam's crows pecked at his hair. Raphael handed him the chicken. Samael put the bucket on his head

and cried...