Angel wings play across my ceiling while I lie in bed trying to fall asleep. Shadowy, feathery figures that flit and float across the surface, as if moved by an unseen breeze. They sway, back and forth, and I am mesmerized.
They speak to me, low whispers of angelic violence. Telling me to do things to myself, harmful things, injurious things, but always stopping just short of suggesting suicide. It’s as if even they can’t contemplate of that outcome. But they coax me to hurt myself, and almost I am persuaded. Almost.
The angel wings come down off my ceiling then and begin to frame my face. Caressing it. Cradling it. The whispers continue, but they change from self-harm to gentle reassurances. They insist they have my best interests at heart, even where moments ago they were violent and aggressive. I don’t know what prompted the change. But I know I don’t trust those whispers.
After a bit, the wings leave my face. They move to my walls, my floor. I can’t see them down there, but I can hear them, low shhrring sounds, like cotton on glass. Finally they fall silent, if only for the moment.
I roll over and close my eyes, ignoring the wings even as I hear them moving again. I fall asleep, images of falling leaves playing across my mind in time to the sound of the wings.
