The Angel with the Lilac Orb
Every afternoon, once school lets out, I go to the wide path in the shadows of the casinos, and sit and wait. The other kids, out walking their dogs or lounging with their friends, always ignore me — perhaps it's my odd hair colour, feline features, or something about my manner that repels them; but I don't care. I'm never alone, as the feral cats are used to me now, and gather round for their shares of my affection. Would that I could give it elsewhere...
Some afternoons, he comes. So tall, so strong, so manly; he appears from nowhere, wearing a long coat and wielding a sword of light. He too has hair of an unnatural colour, palest blue-green in contrast to my own deep lilac, and his ears are long and pointed. He is so obviously not of this world, but so much more beautiful than anyone in it. Alas, he never has time to notice me.
As soon as he arrives, another comes. From nowhere, the sound of violins sings out, a wild, intense melody that I can't help but sway to as I sit. I have become familiar with his opponents: the schoolboy with the power of lightning, the robot maid, the forest spirit... all the others. No sooner than they meet, they fight. Fight with strength of body, weapons, and magic, for the possession of the small lilac orb he carries. Perhaps this is why I'm so attracted to him? His orb, my hair... is there some connection between us? If only... I sometimes wonder about the others, what their stories are, why they must fight my angel. But my mind would rather dwell on him.
Sometimes, his opponent is a dark shadow of himself; a mirror steeped in evil. The first time it appeared, it defeated my angel, and I was so scared he was gone forever. And for a few days, he did not return; my heart sank lower than it has ever been. Then, just as I became sure I would never see him again, he returned. I remember his opponent was the ludicrous tank-robot that day; for the first time I did not cringe in fear when it sank its cruel spikes into my angel's flesh, for now I was sure that whatever befell him, whether he overcame or submitted, he would come back to me, whole once more.
He is gracious, either in victory or defeat; a true warrior to his core. No matter whether he triumphs or falls, he does not berate or belittle his opponent, though his parting advice to them can be harsh. And whether he retains his orb or has it taken from him, it is back in his possession for the next day... the next fight.
For that is all I ever see of him. No chance meeting in a café for us, no brief glimpses on a crowded street; he appears only to fight. And so I come to the shadows of the casinos every day, and play with the cats that seem as drawn to him as I am, and sway to his music when he comes. Hoping that one day, he will turn and see me.
My beautiful angel.
