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townofcrosshollow · 2 days

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This is part 2 of an ongoing horror romance story about a depressed and isolated man finding new life after rescuing an injured fallen angel.

You can read part 1 here.

CWs for this chapter include graphic violence, references to alcoholism, and sexual innuendo (lots of it)

Samson had used a knife on flesh before, but never while the creature was still squirming. It was clear just at a glance that the angel-thing was suffering- he even considered for a moment whether to put it out of its misery like a deer that had a run-in with a car. But upon stepping closer to it with that hunting knife raised, he realized that the thing was far from morally wounded. Its whole body was scraped and bruised, but only those wings were broken. Those massive, unweildy wings.

At the base, where feather met flesh, it didn't look good. The bones had both dislocated. A significant amount of meat had been torn off, revealing mottled flesh under the pale skin- blue like spoiled beef, shimmering in the ambient light of the thing's own aura. More of that golden "blood" had started to run down its back. It drenched the ground beneath it like paint. That bleeding needed to stop if this thing was going to not die, but it looked like there was no saving those wings. So Samson slung the rifle over his back and pulled out his hunting knife.

The thing was compliant, almost docile in the face of the knife. Its screams quieted to whimpers. Samson got it prone and kneeled down straddling its back, golden stains pooling on the front of his jeans. He grabbed the wings and spread them out as best he could, feeling those downy soft feathers between his fingers. Its skin was soft too, and cool like a placid lake.

Samson unsheathed the knife, its serrated blade glinting in the holy aura of its soon-to-be victim's body. His hand was unsteady and his head swimming. He slid the blade between the ripped edges of skin on the thing's right wing. Everything came sharply into focus when he could feel the resistance of skin against metal. Gritting his teeth and holding the grip tight like a lifeline, Samson started to saw. More cool blood coated his hands as muscle split and tore around the knife's jagged edge. When he finally reached the skin, it stretched and shifted along with the serrations. He had to force it, his strokes further, faster, harder. And then he nearly caught himself in the leg as the last little piece of skin finally snapped.

Time for the second one. Sweat dripped from Samson's chin, his breathing quick. Underneath him, the thing wasn't squirming anymore, but it was whimpering, crying out little sounds of pain. Its cries were still bordering on musical. Hearing them, those melodic notes, a strange euphoria bubbled up in his chest and clouded his mind. This one was easier- or maybe it just felt faster, as he wasn't sure how well he could rely on his sense of time anymore. The blade sliced through muscle like butter, every little bit of fiber snapped rewarding him with more beautiful crying. With the last sawing motion, the pieces were finally disconnected, and Samson kneeled there panting and coated in the thing's golden blood. The creature was silent.

That's what this was all about- blood. Fuck. Mind clearing, Samson ripped his shirt off and started slicing starting cuts into it to tear it into shreds. This would have to do until he could get back to the cottage. With wads of plaid against the wounds, he started wrapping up its torso in DIY bandages. He had to grab the thing by the shoulder and pull it up slightly to get the bandages around its chest, but its head wasn't limp- a good sign.

Kneeling beside the thing, he turned it over on its back. It was passed out cold. Samson slipped a hand under its shoulders and another under its knees, lifting it into his arms. He was surprised by how light the thing was, maybe around 90 pounds, and 5'4" at least. Its body was slim yet soft, not bony or angular in the slightest. Its dainty hands hung limp, and its head lulled back into his arm.

The thing was stunningly beautiful- soft, a slight pout on its soft bluish lips. Reminiscent of a Bouguereau. A head of long, dark hair was draped over Samson's arm, glittering in the morning sun. "Angel" was clearly the appropriate term for it, this creature forsaken by God, left now in the arms of a sinner. What awful timing, too. Arms heavy with a new responsibility, Samson trudged back to the cottage.

The guest house on the lakefront property was in a state of disrepair ever since daddy died. Maintaining it was far too much work, and he didn't like to come in here anyway. But the roof wasn't leaking, and the floorboards were intact, and the lights still came to life when Samson nudge the light switch with his shoulder. It was barren- he'd sold most of the usable furniture years ago. An old fridge was disconnected and pulled out of place next to the cabinets by the wall, and an ancient wooden stove was against the opposite wall. Its flue disappeared into the roof. Probably still blocked up. He never bothered to fix it. A wrought iron framed bed sat in the corner, its mattress ancient and its sheets worn. The walls were originally wallpaper with a layer of beige paint over top- where it had flaked off, a flowery green design showed through. This was going to have to do.

Samson gently laid his "guest" down on the bed, careful to arrange its sleeping body into some semblance of the recovery position- something he remembered from his days of getting blackout drunk around other people (as opposed to the more private arrangement he had now). He pulled the sheets up to cover the thing's crotch- he had tried his best not to look. It seemed disrespectful.

He smoothed the creatures hair out over its shoulders, which rose and fall with gentle breaths. Just for a little he sat there in that moment, hand hovering over it, watching it breathe. How long had it been since he'd touched a living thing?

This was not important. With a deep and ragged sigh, he went to fetch the first aid kit.

The next time he opened that door to the guest house, Samson was greeted by that face again. The angel was not upright, but hunched over and supporting its weight with its arms, its legs splayed out beneath the covers. Stringy hair hung limply from its scalp, obscuring parts of its face- but its eyes peered through, locked in Samson's gaze. They were pale grey, like a foggy morning.

His instincts took hold and Samson approached slowly, not making any sudden movements, like he'd spotted a spooked dear. "You're awake," he observed, his voice hoarse. "Do you... speak?"

This being only stared, leaning further back as he approached like a cat ready to pounce. Maybe his approach was correct- maybe this thing was feral. But then, eyes still locked on Samson, it slowly lowered its head in a nod.

"But not now? Okay." The thing might have needed some time. At least it seemed to understand him. "I have bandages here. I'm going to patch up your wounds, until I can find a way to get you to... a hospital, I guess." Would a bird-person go to a hospital or a vet? Now that it had no wings, was it just a person?

The angel-thing didn't move. It just stared.

Samson kneeled down slowly by the bed, placing the first aid kit down and opening up the latches. "I need you to turn around so I can see your back."

There was another moment's lag, but then the thing complied. It shifted around to sit cross legged, facing the wall, its hands bunched up in the sheets to cover its lap. From the back, just as from the front, the shapes of its body were stunning. Although it had barely been fifteen minutes, the skin of its back was soft and smooth, still drenched in dried golden blood but otherwise flawless. Hadn't it been bruised and scraped the last time Samson ran his coarse fingers along its back?

Samson slipped a pair of cold metal bandage scissor's between the thing's back and the remains of his shirt (he had been so frazzled by the situation that he had almost forgotten he was half naked, until this moment brought his blood-covered bare torso sharply into focus). As the "bandages" fell away, what was left behind puzzled him.

There were no more remains of bone there- all had been covered up by that mottled blue flesh. The bleeding had stopped, and the edges of the skin were no longer ragged and torn. Rather, little tendrils of it snaked across the open wound, connecting to each other and forming a strange network of branches across its surface. Like a slime mold searching for food.

Grabbing his supplies- a bottle of isopropyl alcohol, a clean rag, and a long strip of gauze with packing material to accompany it- Samson climbed up onto the bed to get a better vantage. Kneeling with his legs on either side of the thing's body, he ran his fingers along the strange web of flesh. The angel only winced a little, leaning further forward and gripping the sheets tighter.

"You heal fast," Samson muttered, holding the rag up to the mouth of the bottle and soaking it just a little with alcohol. "I'm going to disinfect it with alcohol, okay? It's going to hurt."

The thing nodded and braced itself, shoulders hunched forward. The moment the rag hit its broken skin, it let out a sound somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. It was familiar for some reason- a sound that made something happen in Samson's chest, a quickening of his breath, a feeling he couldn't quite put into words. But he carried on, rubbing the cloth into its back in little circles, that feeling rising in him more and more as its little cries of pain continued.

"I'm finished," he whispered, the dropping the gold-soaked rag on the bed beside them and grabbing the gauze. "I'm just gonna wrap it up, and you can rest."

Unspooling the length of gauze, Samson reached his arms around the angel's chest, to grab the other end and start looping it around. He had to push himself up against it to reach, his jeans pressing against its lower back and his skin against its soft, nude flesh. For that moment of contact, he could feel its breathing matching his, quick and uncertain. Was it pain, or was it that same feeling that had lodged into his chest and wouldn't go away?

Once the wounds had been covered up, Samson ran his fingers slowly down the creature's back. He didn't want to leave this moment. But he had to go. He got up from the bed, dusted himself off. "It's all patched up now. I'm done with you."

The angel turned to look over its shoulder at the man. It said nothing, just nodded, its eyes locked on Samson. Its brows were drawn up, the corners of its eyes a little wet, and its lips curled into the slightest smile.

This was not the last time this angel would look that way at its new host.

#srb

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