Headless Angel: Dark Angel #1


I didn’t know how to react when she arrived. I opened the door and there she stood, her golden hair shimmering in the morning sunlight. She could have been a model for any number of fashion magazines. But here she was, standing at my door, looking at me. She smiled at me and my heart melted. My legs trembled and I almost fell to my knees.

Do it.

I shook my head.

“Please, come in,” I offered. She stepped inside and I closed the door behind her. “Is there anything I can get for you?”

She smiled again and shook her head.

Do it. No one will know.

I shook my head.

“Please, sit down. I’ll be just a minute.”

She sat on my leather sofa and waited, her hands resting in her lap, the smell of her perfume drifting through my small house. It was intoxicating. I walked on shaking, unsteady legs as I walked into the kitchen and fetched my digital recorder from a drawer. I sat down in a wooden chair across from her and pressed the small red record button.

“Are you alright?” she asked. Her voice was soft, and made my heart leap.

“Yes, yes I’m fine. Are you ready to begin?”

She nodded.

Come on, just do it already. Just fucking do it. It’ll be so easy. Look at her.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “Let’s get started. Tell me, what is it you aspire to be?”

“I would absolutely love to be a model. I think I’m pretty close to landing an agent, actually. I’m hoping this interview will really help people to really get to know who I am. You said you work for a magazine, right?”

She’s perfect for it. Come on, do it. Think of how beautiful you can make her.

“Um, yes. We’re international.”

“Wonderful. I can’t wait to read it. What’s the name of your magazine?”

“Just one more question first. What do you love most?”

The woman leaned back, a thoughtful expression on her face. “I love myself. I have to if I want to be a model.”

You have to do it. Right now.

I shook my head.

Fine. If you won’t do it, I will.

Everything went dark.

I awoke in my basement. The room was only illuminated by a few candles on the floor lining the wall. I opened my eyes and gazed upon the horror before me.

Blood-covered feathered wings attached to a metal prod that stabbed into her back, and protruded out the front of her shoulders. A headless body suspended from the ceiling by heavy iron chains. Blood poured down the stump that was her neck, down her chest, and dripped from her toes into a pool of blood on the floor.

I stood up and reached into my pocket. I pulled out the digital recorder and pressed the repeat button, and then pressed play.

“I love myself,” the woman’s voice said from the recorder. “I love myself. I love myself. I love myself.”

The headless angel loves herself.

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