PROLOGUE
rains.
In this city, buried beneath the clouds, surrounded by artificial light, like a cathedral, the tears of heaven fall incessantly, it was impossible to get them to stop.
The people who are sheltering under umbrellas, has become forgetful of the sky.
She looks at him through the small windows of the apartments, but without searching the height.
How do you see the rain, people stop to watch and take an umbrella before leaving.
was so before?
Before the angels fall? O
with them has fallen on this city, the anger of the Lord?
It 'happened, but nobody was able to capture the moment.
as if something important had passed under the eyes of everyone, but so silent, so sudden and slow, or fast, that they are invisible to everyone except, perhaps, to those who are involved.
This city has become a prison, the rain draws bars on every window and sky, the color of lead, shows no mercy whatsoever.
Yet, a prison is not perhaps a place to serve their sentences and from which, sooner or later leave to resume his life?
In different places of this city, there are creatures that look at the sky every day, hoping to see him open up, like a hug, a smile and invite them to rise again, to wrap them in the blue .
And yet, still prisoners of their sin, condemned to distorted memories, frustrated desires, forbidden dreams, fallen angels roam the streets, looking for a way back up there ...
And I can not help but hear their voices, eyes without tears ...
CHAPTER 1: Demian
All I see is beautiful.
All I see is ugly.
Everything around me is not mine, as if it were always just beyond the reach of my hands.
I know not of this world, bears the mark between his shoulders. A brand cruel.
My wings torn off.
I have few memories of when I had the wings, but even now I think, sometimes, to feel the weight.
Especially when there is wind and swells my shirt, my arms tend to open up.
As if I could still fly.
's just a recurring dream, one of the wings, a distorted memory of a sick mind who lives on the edge of the world, not above, not below, not in the middle.
I watch the world go by, I look in their eyes my image, but I feel that I do not see.
too young.
Everyone looks vague, which does not pursue either the light or shadow.
In this world, people are living without really being alive.
But I wonder if this should become aware of a fallen angel from heaven for their sins.
My wings ...
's so painful, even just thinking about it.
The slaughter is renewed, as if the physical pain was indelible, impossible to erase, even through the years, through a thousand other memories and other suffering.
Why?
Every time I try to push my mind in those moments, clenching his teeth in pain, clutching fists in anger, my memories stop as suddenly burned by a light that blinds me, pulling them to the reality that I, at present, no hope ...
I Fell in flames, in a world bathed in tears .
I showered the pavement with my blood, mixing it with water.
Ravens have torn my flesh already torn, cold metal, I shouted my new status, my membership in this material world, where the pain is physical.
Where there is love.
I know there are others like me, you cursed beings by God, who err on this ground under the sky, in this prison.
A day will come to me.
do not know why I have this certainty, but it is.
I am the beacon that guides them.
O are the fire that burned the moths ...
CHAPTER 2: ENID
Leaving put his hand over the threshold and gathered in the palm, wrapped in white bandages, a few drops of rain. Gray rain, running along an old stone building eroded by time, slipped on the dirty windows, the statues black, their eyes lifeless.
her, the woman dressed in red, wore red shoes with a heel, the ones that wrap around his ankle with a red ribbon.
He wore a light waterproof, semi-transparent, a handkerchief to cover the elaborate hairstyle.
It 's very beautiful when walking down the street, although rarely the people turn to look at her a second time.
has something that slips away eyes, a bright light ...
Maybe.
Enid went to the park today to watch the lake, the fish looking for pieces of bread along the banks, pointing out when someone is stopped Disposable.
not happen anymore, but they keep coming back.
She sits on the stone bench, decorated with arabesques of moss, and looks upward, the tops of the buildings which converge toward the sky like the pillars of the churches.
Search for a chink in the clouds, with desperate eyes.
His hands wrapped hide cruel cuts, which was self-inflicted hoping to forget another pain, stronger. What
of its wings cut off, those wounds still open, still bleeding, that gasping like fish dying that the storm brought too close the shore.
A Enid look like creatures dying. Find
comic desperation in their eyes, their attachment to life.
For a fallen angel prison life is more terrible and Enid, countless times, tried to escape, without success.
A girl who wanders in the rain, wearing the red of his blood, the red of his fire.
laughing and crying with his hands raised above their heads, scratch the sky, to break their nails.
But not even open a gate.
continues to rain.
Enid enters the water, makes its way among the plants grown on the banks, the leaves rigid, almost sharp.
insects fly away, while the fish arrive, stretching their mouths to mute white meat of this stranger.
drops keep falling on the surface of the lake.
Enid now see the sky through the water.
The clothes are inflated, for a moment his body has lost weight and it seemed to fly again.
Until you miss your breath and the water has spread to his lungs.
black algae, grown without sun, they grabbed, taken by the ankles and pulled down, while the silver fish flit around like butterflies.
would want to struggle to return to unconsciously want to live, but the decision to die is stronger. Hands cling to trees in the background, heavy clothing in the anchor depth.
" Kill me," he thinks.
" Kill me!" Implores.
The lips do not form bubbles in the water.
CHAPTER 3: Trystan
am surrounded by unhappiness, perhaps the author or the victim's favorite.
Often I think it's my fault that Enid went crazy.
His mind was burned by the fire of fall, or God, in addition to tear the wings, has even taken away the reason?
E 'was a compassionate gesture to the dearest of His angels, or cruel, for the one who most hated?
I wonder if there is then all the difference ...
Today I found in the park, floating in the middle of the lake.
How can a living being, any time, devise a way to try to kill himself?
She still has not understood that the angels do not die?
angels, without love of God are everlasting, like love itself.
Though perhaps we're not angels, we are not even human beings. We are something that floats in the middle, in limbo filled with despair. The
heal our wounds, with the exception of the wings.
Our blood that bathes the world does not dry out and soon returns to flow in our bodies made materials from the curse.
You know, Enid?
I look at you while you I hold in my arms, face immense pale, eyes closed, her lips livid.
My love for you has not diminished, has not changed, it is neither more nor less than it was before the fall.
When I loved you in heaven.
E 'for you that I accepted all this for you every day I find the strength to come and try to collect your body established by your cruelty and your hatred for yourself and for this our condition.
I'm not looking for a way back.
I do not care.
I do not see the labyrinth in which we are forced, I do not see the prison. Anything that makes me suffer is the distance that exists between us and I, just me, I try to break down ...
I just want you, I want your eyes to look at me, that your body tries to My.
But it does not happen.
For me this is the ultimate curse.
I'll bring in our shelter, a building that people have abandoned all'incuria time.
scales echo of my steps.
The roof has collapsed, sometimes water comes from the ceiling of the rooms, then it is as if even the walls cry, tinged with gray.
The water stains have taken strange forms.
You see there faces and call them by name. Demian is the most nominated.
I do not know who he is, although I feel that I should know, I have distorted memories, but some things to remember.
remember that an angel caused the fall.
Then I loved and he loved us all. But many things have changed since then ...
Enid, no one else. I do not care of others, only her.
Watch your eyes, Enid, looking like something that is not in this room.
When you wake me axles.
Your broken nails scratching me, until I bleed and I have to use all my strength to hold you.
After a first moment, it is difficult to overcome your resistance, you're weakened by the suicide attempt, quickly end your energy.
you cast on the bed and crushed under my weight so you do not move. Your clothes are soaking wet sheets, cold between us two.
you take them out, as gently as possible, without getting hurt, and no reopening your wounds will take off the bandages at the wrists and hands. Cut white and pale, with no traces of blood, gasping, waiting to heal completely and disappear.
Your body will return intact as before.
you remove the bodice, loosing every belt, with patience.
My breath on the stumps of the wings ripped makes you cringe.
I hurt you without meaning to, I can not help it. Finally, you undo your hair, the braid has been discarded, the crimson curls will fall everywhere, like a cloak.
You're beautiful, breathtaking.
My desire for you grows inside me like a tide, called the moon.
you try, even if you do not want me. I know how to win your refusal.
not need to touch me, you can close your eyes with your hands and pretend that is not me. I know you do not love me, it is no secret.
I just could touch you, have your body soft and white, hold your life in my hands, mix my breath away with your own.
It 's like climbing to the sky and then falling again. Try the thrill of flying, only through the joining of our bodies.
The supreme act of love is not this?
How, then, that has become painful and beautiful at the same time?
Maybe love has been banished from our lives cursed?
part of the sentence that I want to Enid, who does not want me? And she wants another one that has never sought?
CHAPTER 4: ENID
E 'lying on the bed, her naked body that still throbs, as if he had a fever. A pleasure
uncontrollably welled up involuntarily, that makes you short of breath, which gives her a pain so deep as to make her cry.
blink, dropping tears on the pillow.
Trystan is next to her, the large sweaty back still bears his graffiti.
Enid looks at him a long time, studying her face, beautiful, tanned skin, eyes as blue as the sky they are denied, the strong nose, lips fleshy and sensual.
When he turns around, her hands trying again, stroking his white skin, entwining her fingers with his. He kisses her with a lust that breaks my heart.
feel his love, a residue of divine that still lingers in him, that the fire was unable to erase.
But he can not give him in return. His heart is dry. His mind is just a name.
Demian.
Enid gets out of bed and walk barefoot to the window.
The floor is damp, dirty glass powder he left out the cold.
" The rain falls from above, to be received by the harshness of this world made of stone and steel. I look be greeted with a hug and I remember other hard and ruthless and drops more hugging, more tragic, painful and sustained.
You remember them, true, Demian?
was you to weigh up to stop me my wings to fly, to condemn the inevitable fall. Your eyes
deep blue, your smile so perfect ... You were an angel or
your feathers had already begun to fall, as autumn leaves, dried and marches, fall from the trees?
I have called you, just opening up the lips and moving them around my name.
" Enid"
Until then I had never known any form of pleasure.
Maybe I had wanted to see, along with the dream of the flesh, never imagined there was the chance to really test it.
For us, that we were angels, the existence revolved around perfectly.
because you want something that we could remove it?
What makes us so inexorably to the limit, to the border where it ends and we know we risk falling into the unknown? Because the pleasure
resembles, in itself, so much pain?
You knew what you were doing when your long white fingers were clamped around my wrist?
When our faces were touched your golden hair and melted and mingled my flame?
I felt your warm breath near misses, like a breeze that comes from the burning desert, born under the hot sun of midday.
I felt my skin under your fingers, my spirit to take form, shaped by your touch, as my mouth opened greedy, eager to become a body to be able to touch your body and your mouth.
The lure of the flesh was so strong ...
Left behind everything without regret, no regrets.
Your kisses me drunk, I was more than I wanted, as if it were impossible to stop once started. We explored our bodies these new and unknown with the slowness of someone for whom time does not exist.
The memory is sweet, but it hurts like a knife too sharp.
were our cries to be guilty or were convicted by a desire? "
CHAPTER 5 DEMIAN
For celestial being can not even imagine falling. Only once fallen
you realize how high we were flying.
look at the sky from the earth and it seems so far away ... did nothing. How can the wings made of feathers support a heavy body like this?
The church is dark at night.
remain only the lights of candles to illuminate this darkness. The eyes of the saints stare accusers.
The only one who looks at me with compassion is Christ from his cross, the suffering face like mine. We
like, me and him! He too was sentenced to a life on earth. As his was not a punishment but a mission, is the only one to have experienced the afterlife and then the material, preserving the memory of the previous year. He suffered but eventually returned to the throne of the Father. Sometimes
dream to soar again, over the buildings, on this damp gray prison that nourishes my body and my mind suffering illusions. But a voice inside of me, calling me stupid.
Dreamer.
Illus.
I also have my mission. It's called redemption. Not of men, but the fallen angels, the angels curse serving their sentences here.
The night usually vague, with no sleep, a prisoner of fragmented memories, which I try desperately to merge into a single memory, to reconstruct the events, although I know it will be terrible, when I stop to look at the pieces of the puzzle and I will see in its entirety.
The hidden image.
The priest who collected my body pierced by the iron cross tells me that perhaps it is the mercy of God that I hide the past.
My confessor is trembling, I know.
When I walk in the night, deprived of sleep, I hear him complaining, moaning in his sleep.
afraid of not being able to bear the weight of my sin, when that will come to light. He
fear of being blinded by the evil I have done and how to burn paper in a bonfire.
Yet, his hands stroked my head, when the discomfort comes over me and my broken sobs filled the church. His arms, emaciated by the disease of me around the shoulders, while his lips I whisper kind words in his ear.
Then, while drying my tears, I feel his excitement. I
is too close.
I understand that my beauty makes him feel emotions he thought he had lost with the passing of years. Hardly people approached me so much, it's like something keep her away.
But he's different.
not afraid to get on the roof of his church for free my flesh from the iron that had taken my fall.
The church was dripping blood.
my blood, carried by the rain poured down the gutter and the pavement of the square.
He went up and saw the crows, pecking my exposed flesh, croaking like so many demons met.
How long you stayed there staring at me?
I remember that I opened my eyes and seeing his black silhouette, among the black shapes of crows and the rivulets of rain.
I thought it was the devil, came to take my hand.
Everything in me screamed my pain and my despair. Never before then I had suffered so much ... except maybe in the fall, but not in Serbian memory, as I said.
But I had no breath to scream, and the tears I took them all away in the rain wild, I scourged and removed, the eyes of God, the sight of red too strong for my blood.
moving their lips, but did not leave his breath. Blinking his eyes, chasing away the drops that I wanted to blind.
Then the crows fled and cold hands I took away a piece at a time, my cross.
Never, in all that process, the consciousness has left me.
I was lucid, but made it almost mad with grief, unable to find refuge in unconsciousness.
The priest took me in his arms and carried me down the narrow stone stairs. I kept
as you can take a thing, not a living being. Helplessly, I was like a puppet, a puppeteer who has dropped. Then he laid on a bed, contact with the dry cloth got me back to mind something
One word.
" Loss"
I felt the tears start to come out of my eyes.
and have not stopped for a long, long time.
long, wondering why I was crying, I realized I had forgotten the answer.
EPILOGUE
This is a city that slowly ruined, crushed under the weight of a constant rain, which seems lazy to take away everything, it seems to dissolve the stone buildings, smooth faces of the statues, to make them devoid of any feature can turn the streets into muddy rivers where people like boats sailing without moorings, adrift on the current.
All black, all gray.
With the rain we lose interest in things that around us and we cease to look.
So no one sees the little secrets that surround us.
The faces of angels condemned.
The passage of time leaves no traces.
All proceeds always the same, under the sky covered under this rain sad, in this city without shadows.
So the angels do not change over the years and live one day after another like flowers that open and close waiting to dry.
Only I will see their end, there will come a day away, without being announced by anyone, as beautiful as they were beautiful at the time of grace.
I am the watcher, the man who walks in the biting wind of a fate of others, the man with no history, which examines what nobody, not even God, wants to see more. I
preserves the dreams of these fallen beings, their illusions of their lives without a future, their visions of decay, made even more bitter by the memory of past greatness.
And I can not be sad because I feel no sorrow, nor can I feel sorry for them because they do not try.
I look at them there and one day see the end of their suffering. The only consolation.
Ossian.
