Shakespeare's POV
When I opened my eyes, the first thing I noticed was white. Not crisp, insane asylum white, but clean, wholesome light that was just gold enough to soften, but not enough not to be considered white. It had a surreal air to it.
I sat up and stretched my cramped wings, wondering where I was.
Wait...Wings?
Gasping, I looked up. Above my head, stretching out of my back, were two long, elegant, feathery-white wings. I glanced down. The rest of me was the same. I wore my tan tunic, a vest, brown pants, and a pair of dirty boots.
Suddenly, the memories flooded back, and my hand flew to my stomach. But there was no blood. Untucking my shirt, I saw only a round scar.
"You are awake," said a deep, kindly voice. I spun around. It was an old man dressed in robes of brilliant white.
"Who are you?" He smiled at me, and I felt my heart warm.
"I am Saint Peter," he replied. I immediately crossed myself.
"What happened?" I asked, though I knew the answer.
"You died. However, your purpose does not end there. You are to become a Guardian Angel." I smiled. My mother used to tell me stories of guardian angels. She told me that everyone gets one, and they watch over you and advise you.
"Who am I guarding?" I asked. He smiled, his eyes twinkling.
"You shall see."