Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-25226916-20150614002507

Life was nothing below perfect for many of my years, and it’s all because of my daughter. I have never seen a more perfect being in my entire life. Beautiful, kind, intelligent, just perfect. I loved her to death, my little angel, she made life easier and, overall, happier.

And then my disease threw a monkey wrench into everything, completely ruined my life, and shortened it overall. In 3 weeks, the disease that would eat away at my physical and social abilities would cripple my brain function and ultimately cause my organs to just shut down. In my opinion, it was not the disease that hindered my life, but the fact that I’d be separated from my daughter. Her eagerness to support me and be right next to me through my final days hit me like a ton of bricks. How would she handle herself, without her father, in this cruel, harsh world? I had a sickening gut feeling she wouldn’t. I felt a massive wash of guilt, even though it was not my fault.

The day I was certain to die came too quickly. I could barely move, I was paralyzed from the waist down, unable to walk. I woke up, looked outside my window, and it hit me in the face that it was today that would be marked on my gravestone. Panic, anger and sadness all washed over my body like a tsunami. I wanted to sob, scream, be with my daughter for one more day. I was so engulfed in my sorrow I never noticed the figure sitting on my desk.

In one swift instant, I went from a blender of negative emotions to fear and confusion. I couldn’t reach my phone, call for somebody, beat the figure to incapacitate him long enough to flee. I tried to call for my daughter, but before I could the figure spoke.

“Hello. I need you to get up right away, sir, for I must show you something.” It’s tone was both harsh and welcoming, cold but warm, piercing yet comforting. I trained my eyes on him, my face contorted in horror, trying to make out any details. The figure was pitch black, with no features. Except for a ghostly, pale black halo over it’s head and the outline of wings attached to the center of its back.

There was no evidence as to if the figure was wearing something, and I couldn’t tell whether it was male or female. “Who are you?” I asked it, unable to hide the fear and curiosity out of my voice. “I am Legna, the anti-angel. Sir, you must get up. I must show you something,” the figure stated.

“Anti-angel? What is that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what it says. Now I must show you something.”

“I can’t get up, I’m paralyzed. I have a brain disease.”

“I know. Get up.” Legna was starting to confuse me more, making me angry.

“I can’t stand. I just can’t.”

“Get. Up.” Legna looked at me hard. “Now.”

I pushed myself out of bed, ready to prove I could not stand. I stood face to silhouette with Legna, about to scream at it.

Wait. I stood in front of him.

In surprise, I took a step forward without any issue. I was delighted. I knew that in some way, Legna was responsible. I turned to thank it, but he was already next to me, pointing at a small white feather next to my wardrobe.

“Do you see the feather?” Legna asked me.

<p style="font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">“Yes,” I responded.

<p style="font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">“Walk up to it. You should see a trail of feathers leading to what I must show you. Follow the feathers and only stop when the feathers stop,” Legna demanded.

<p style="font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">I immediately complied and walked over to the feather. I noticed another one, so I approached it. I walked along the trail. As I walked, dots of crimson would either appear on or beside the feather. Not concerned, I followed Legna’s commands and followed the feathers. I focused on nothing but the feathers.

<p style="font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">The trail halted to a stop in my kitchen. I paused in front of the last feather, waiting for Legna to show me. “Look up,” Legna instructed.

<p style="font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">I pulled my head up and covered my mouth to stifle a scream. In front of me looked like a dead angel, with one of her wings devoid of feathers. She had a gash in her chest and a cross stuck in her skull. Above her, on my fridge, was the anticross. I had seen the angel before, but I had no clue who it was.

<p style="font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">“Well?” I said, a slight tone of impatience in my voice. “What do you think?”

<p style="font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">No, no, no. I didn’t say anything, no I didn’t. But it was my voice. I whipped around, glad to have my eyes not staring at the dead angel but at… me.

<p style="font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">I had no mirror standing there, so I had no idea what was going on. Everything was just too horrific and strange, and I wondered to myself if I was dreaming, or in purgatory or something of the sort. “Who are you?” I asked. I knew, but I didn’t. It was entirely confusing.

<p style="font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">“I am you, you moron,” the other me said, a smile rested upon his face. “I’m nobody else but you.”

<p style="font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">“That’s impossible.”

<p style="font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">“Remember your disease, my friend. It’ll all come to the light that doesn’t exist anymore.”

<p style="font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">It hit me what had happened just as I could feel my organs jolt to a stop. I collapsed to the ground, somehow alive, but barely. I faced the angel, convulsing violently, trying to scream but couldn’t.

<p style="font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">The last thing I heard was the other me saying “You know full well who did that.”

<p style="font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">The last thing I saw was the angel. No, let me correct myself.

<p style="font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">My angel.

<p style="font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">

<p style="font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">(Tell me what you think, what I can fix, add, change, etc to make this a better pasta. Thanks.) <ac_metadata title="Feather (need some feedback)"> </ac_metadata>