The A of D Chapter 1, a bible fanfic

Disclaimer: I do not the Bible. God does. And maybe Jesus...I think. I really don't know. I'm not very religious. At all, actually.

I also do not own the Angel of Death. At least the real one. I own my version of her, though. And yes, my version is a she. A very hot she, to be exact.

A/N: My Angel of Death is very strange, and just so we're clear, she is a female. A teenager to be exact.

This is rated 'T' because of language, and for dark themes.

The A of D

She seems dressed in all the rings

Of past fatalities

So fragile, yet so devious

She continues to see it

Climatic hands that press

Her temples and my chest

Enter the night that she came home

Forever

She's the only one that makes me sad

Blackness all around. Not one light in sight. Is this Hell? Sometimes she wonders that herself. And every single time she asks herself this one question, the answer is always the same. Yes. This is her Hell. The one she got herself trapped in.

She wanders through the dark, staring at nothing but the ground on which she walks. That lonely, lost walk of hers. She sighs and crosses her arms across her chest as if to guard herself. Perhaps, she is. She will build her wall and hide behind it. No one will ever hurt her again.

She's so pitiful. So pitiful that anyone who would llook at her would cry. That is, if they would even acknowledge her presence. They certainly didn't when she was alive, anyway.

She is everything and more

The solemn hypnotic

My Dahlia bathed in posession

She is home to me

She can still remember that one day that stills plays perfectly clear in her troubled mind, and she feels it in her tortured soul. If she even had a soul. Does she, you ask? We shall never know. If she does, she hides all evidence well. She shivers at the slight chill. For a Hell, it is quite cold. But then again, it isn't 'the Hell.' It's her Hell, now isn't it? But to her, anything is better than her Hell. In the real Hell, you would be tortured, beaten, or maybe burned alive. She wouldn't know, because she hasn't been there. But pain would be alright with her. Then at least she would feel something.

I get nervous, perverse, when I see her it's worse

But the stress is astounding

It's now or never she's coming home

Forever

She's the only one that makes me sad

Yes. She feels numb. So numb that inflicts torture upon herself. Pulls her hair out, screams until her throat feels like it's been torn to shreds, and most of all, slits. I imagine you already know what I mean by 'slits.' So, I will not explain. By slitting, she came here, came to this Hell. Her Hell. And here she stays, growing more and more insane as each darkened day goes by. She runs her black finger nail polished hands through her raven hair.

Hard to say what caught my attention

Fixed and crazy aphid attraction

Carve my name in my face

To recognize

Such a pheromone cult

To terrorize

It was normal night for some. But for her, it was a nightmare. While others were having the time of their lives on that one Saturday night, she found herself dying inside. Her parents were gone, as were her siblings. No one was there to comfort her in her time of need. Even if they were home, it's not like it would've mattered. For all she knew, she could've lit herself on fire, and still they wouldn't have noticed. No one would have noticed. She had been sobbing uncontrollably on that one Saturday night, and felt horrible; Physically and mentally. It was at that moment when she decided to take a nice, long, hot bath. Nothing helps more than that, right? She bathed in the water for more than 3 hours. It was cold by now, but she didn't care. She was done with caring.

I won't let this build up inside of me

Yeah!

Then she sees it. The razor her mother used to shave her long, tan, model-like legs. She picked it up and looked at the blades. They were majestic. They shined with every turn of the razor. Normally, a person would keep the blades away from their skin, except when shaving, of course, for fear of cutting themselves. She did not hinder, however, to bring them closer. For some strange reason, she was drawn to them. It was like they were calling her, begging her for them to touch her, ever so delicately. She stared at them.

They were beautiful. Then, closing her eyes, she dug the blades into her right wrist. In an instant, they tore through the soft flesh, and she soon felt the sweet pain that was being inflicted upon her. I hurt terribly. And she loved it. She wasn't in Hell, she was in Heaven. An hour later, her parents returned home to find their daughter lying dead, and bathing in a pool of her own blood.

I'm a slave and I am a master

No restraints and unchecked collectors

I exist through my need

To self oblige

She is something in me

That I despise

A smile forms out of her black lips and portrays across her face. Her parents must have been speechless. No, they had probably screamed their throats out. And she thinks about how they saw her. How they noticed she was there for once. The smile is quickly erased from her pale face. And she thinks that it's a shame that that is the only reason they even noticed her there in the first place. Bastards. They never gave a fuck about her. Hell, he mother even refused to hold her when she was born. No one ever accepted her for who she was. And no one ever will.

I won't let this build up inside of me

Damn Angels. Why did they get all the credit? Angels. You know, the things beautiful white wings and white robes who, along with God, are supposed to help people find their way? God's messengers, if you will. They're not as special as people make them sound like. They're supposed to help people in their time of need? Well, then where was her damn Angel? She was suffering. She was confused. She was scared. She was lonely. And she was in need of saving. And yet, no white-winged creature came to her rescue. Stupid Angels. All they ever do is fly around and play there stupid little harps, and people think they're wonderful. She rolls her eyes as she thinks about them, singing along to the tunes that they play on those God forsaken little instruments. Pathetic. Oh, wait, no, that's her. She's the one who's pathetic, not them. She has found no light. She is lost forever, and now she sits in this deep, dark, desolate place, this Hell. She stares out into the darkness as she sits cross-legged on the floor. Black bands are tied around both wrists, covering the marks that will always remain, to remind her.

I won't let this build up inside of me

She is a true A of D, clad in knee-high, laced black boots covering torn leg hose. She also wears a short, leather dress, whose bottom ends just above her knees. Her silvery pale face is covered in nothing but black makeup: Black lipstick, black eyeliner, black eyeshadow, and black mascara. She wears black. She wears her personality: Cold, heartless, tortured, lost, lonely, dark, alone. She knows no happiness, nor does she know any other emotion. Not even pain, the one emotion that she felt everyday in her 18 years of living. She is hollow. And she feels no pain at all. If you ran your hands across her graceful, long and beautiful back, it is most likely that your shaking hands will come into contact with what feels like a bird's wings. Yes, she has wings. But they are not white, like on a normal Angels. No, to most people, she isn't normal. She has her black wings. Let me guess, by now, you are probably telling yourself how that just isn't right, and how an Angel's wings are supposed to be white and beautiful. But I tell you, they are. They are just as beautiful as a Normal Angel's white wings. Perhaps even more. They are her feathery black majesties. The wings that she ties so tightly behind her back.

She isn't real!

I can't make her real!

She isn't real!

I can't make her real!

She has her wings. They are a symbol. A symbol that tells people who she really is the moment they look at her. Yes, it tells them. Tells them it's time to be afraid. She winces as she feels the pain inflicted upon her wings as she turns. And you ask, why doesn't she just untie her wings? Free them from their chained prison? Because she doesn't feel she deserves to free them. No one has punished her for what she does, but she feels she needs to be punished. So she does it herself. You would think Angels would allow themselves to fly. That's what they're supposed to do, right? Well, all but one. But she is no Angel. At least the 'good' kind, anyway.

She rises from her position on the floor. She sighs as she walks over to the stone. The stone that she stares at every day. She shivers as she looks at it. On the stone is a name. Just a name. No more, no less. It reads:

Angel Williams

It is her grave. Her death stone. The stone that no one came to visit. That no one ever comes to visit. Yes, sometimes she goes back to the land of the living, just to see if anyone will come. No one does. Not even her parents. Her heart used to fill with sorrow when she thought of this, but she doesn't feel anything. Not anymore. She is sad, but she doesn't cry. She is exhausted, but she doesn't sleep. She is starving, and yet she never eats. She is a heart that is broken. A soul that is unquenched, and will never be quenched.

She kneels in front of the stone to get a better look at it. It's old, and grows more ancient-looking with every darkened day that passes by. She reaches out to touch it, but hesitates, as if scared to touch it. Perhaps she is. She finally gathers up the courage to lay her hand upon it. It is cold and rough. She suddenly remembers what she is touching, and as quickly as a lightning bolt, pulls her gloved hand back. She shivers.She moves back a little and lays down in front of the stone. She decides she'll close her eyes for a little while. Not sleep, but just close her eyes...

She isn't real

I can't make her real

She isn't real

I can't make her real

And she'll dream. It is the only part of sanity she has left. If you could call dreaming sane at all. You can create whole new worlds with your sleeping imagination. In fact, the imagination is even more powerful when it is sleeping than it is when it's awake. And she knows that. She dreams of better things, and happy memories. It comforrts her. And it is the only thing that connects her to the outside world.

So tonight she'll dream. Who knows, maybe when she wakes up she'll be gone from this Hell, her Hell. And she'll be the Angel of Death, no more. But for now, dreaming is all she can do.

A/N: So I hope you liked it. I know it was weird, but I decided to write about the Angel of Death because the thought of her fascinates me. Yes, I believe it's a she. And I believe she's real, period. Pssh, Grim Reeper? Please. You can't honestly believe in that bullshit. At least I don't anyway. I think it's quite ridiculous. But then again, that's just my opinion. And you might think I'm crazy for believing in the Angel of Death, so I'll just leave it at that.

And just to let you all know, I'll probably have a 'The A of D: Part 2', sometime, but I don't know when. All I know is that I don't want to just end things here. I couldn't possibly.

Anyways, I hope you enjoyed, and please be on the look-out for part 2 of 'The A of D'. Hopefully you all know what A of D stands for by now. lol Hey, it's just a joke. Dont' kill me. I'm not calling you stupid! Sheesh.

Peace and elephant humps to all!

Love,

xoxoxoxo Kendall xoxoxoxo