Title: To Love a Fallen Angel
Summary: Are you fated when you cut an angel, or is purgatory still an option? Screenplay
Rating: T
(Again, call me for instructions on where to place this info. Delete top after!!)
A dark room filled with shadows and secrets, plagued with memories of sculptures and carvings and illusions. A faint glow is seen from above, through an uneven opening in the roof, its light splaying across the floor. The moon is partly seen from behind the clouds, but whether it is full or not cannot yet be determined. A few hours pass by; the moon shifts its position, still behind the clouds. The light is now reflecting off of an ice figure, maybe glass – it's still too dark to tell. The reflected light dances across the walls, creating afflicted images of diamonds, ribbons, even roses (white roses). The shapes configurate around the figure, circling, watching, almost as if they were uncertain of the figure's origin: glass or ice?
Cue music: Walk On by U2 begins to play. A figure enters (upper stage left) and walks (almost grudgingly) toward the figure of ice or glass. The light is still penetrating through her delicate frame (it is decided that it is a she, for only a she can have such divine beauty) as the dark figure walks toward her. He stands before her (it is decided that it is a he, for only a he can be so broken and complete – so expectant), blocking the reflecting light (that penetrates her) from shadowing the west wall with discourse (a discourse between the moon and the angel (it is decided that she is an angel, for you can faintly see her wings, folded across her chest, almost in a protective gesture) with its constant stream of diamonds, ribbons, and roses).
He raises his hand (concealed by the shadows) and caresses her face. The ice (it is decided that she is ice, for glass cannot feather away under pressure) falls from her cheek (the delicate powder almost resembling tears, as if the angel is crying). The moon shifts once again (or maybe the clouds shift away from the moon this time) and the light falls more clearly upon the angel. His hand is still upon her face (resting serenely) and the moonlight shines upon the blades (which appear to be his hands). He draws his hand away (putting it to his face, feeling the cold of the ice against his skin) and closes his eyes (smiling and humming to the music). His pale cheek warms his blade, he pulls it away; it is wet (either from tears, or from blood, or from both). He opens his eyes and gazes upon the angel.
There is a line faulting the surface of her ice cheek (connecting the corner of her eye to the corner of her mouth), somehow sparkling more radiantly than the rest of her figure. He laughs (a sad, desolate thing) and steps back, allowing the roses to begin covering the west wall (there is still not enough space between them for diamonds and ribbons).
The moonlight (which is now decided to be full) stares down at him (immersing him in a halo of innocence) and he stares back (his eyes filled with pain, sorrow, regret) until the song ends.
Cue light: He picks up a stone from the floor and walks over to the hearth (filled with ashes and dried, blackened ice). He places the stone by his feet. The dark figure cups the blackened ice in his blades (for he has momentarily forgotten his identity) and caresses his face with the ashes (slightly penetrating his skin with his metallic fingers). He sobs once (the blood flows, mixing with tears) and pulls his hand away, inhaling the ashes (he coughs). He picks up the stone (pressing it to his face, his wounds, the cool surface reminding him of the angel) and lays it in the palm of his hand. The blades of his other hand begin to caress the stone (making a sheering noise, sending sparks in the direction of the hearth).
There is a fire (lighting up the shadows of his face, reflecting in the depths of his dark eyes) burning gracefully in the hearth (fuelled by ashes and blackened ice). The flame is dying.
He rises and scavenges for paper, finding scraps of paper ripped out from novels: (his hand caressed down her soft, fragile body, his fingers cupping around the shape of her breasts and hips, running through her shoulder-length hair, his fingertips brushing against her parted lips), and another paper (he held her hand, feeling the soft texture of her skin, the warmth of her touch. Her skin was smooth, almost silken, her touch a soft caress, as delicate as the petals of some exotic flower. So soft . . .), and another (she lay in his arms, sighing her last breath, twining her fingers with his. He cupped her face, brushing her lips, brushing the tears away from her eyes. "Goodbye", she whispered, closing her eyes, her hand still in his). He doesn't read them (only pierces them with his blades and puts them in the fire). He watches the paper blacken and burn, turn to ash (crumble in the heart of the hearth). He looks back at the angel (shining in the moonlight), encircled by the ribbons and roses (the diamonds were not visible) watching him. He turns back to the hearth (back to his metallic hand) and sees the paper has disappeared (no remnants left upon his blades).
He pulls his hand out of the fire (moving toward the angel) lifting the tip of his finger to her face. He touches her.
Cue sound: a low hissing sound is audible (steam is seen coming from the angel (clouding her face) masking her tears). There is a puddle at her base. He removes his hand (the steam recedes (the angel is once again visible) her face is melted (the scar was drowned away by her tears) but her smile is not washed away). She smiles at him.
He smiles back (the tears leaking from his eyes make him look breakable (almost delicate) as he begs forgiveness of the angel).
She only smiles