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Onyx Angel part 4"What does your tattoo say?"
"Oh, uh 'Forged through Fire', my dad used to say it all the time about me. I got it for my 16th birthday." Tristan said a little shakily, looking down at his arm.
"What do you mean about you?" She asked after a minute, obviously sensing his unease. "If you don't mind me asking."
"I used to always ask my dad if we could have bonfires and I always played with his lighters. I just felt so attached to fire, but that sounds really weird. Once when I was about 7, I went to a school picnic thing and I used to get bullied all the time, well I still do, but anyway, some kid pushed my into the fire that was there." She sucked in some air. "My dad pulled me out and I was a little burned but it wasn't too bad. My dad then taught me how to stick up for myself, and somehow that became my slogan." A tear slid down Tristan's cheek, but he didn't think Scarlett saw it.
"Are you okay?" She asked quietly as Tristan parked the car outside of the diner.
"Uh, ya, I jus- never m
Onyx Angel part 3Once Tristan was out of the shower, he checked to make sure is head wasn't bleeding anymore and he got dressed. He threw on black skinny jeans and a light blue, darker blue stripped V-neck tee, along with the black rings in his lower lip. He stared at his pale grey eyes, thinking. Well, maybe she'll be in my school; she looked 16, a year younger than me. And, maybe today I could try to look presentable instead of soaking wet from the snow and covered in blood. Jeez, it's like I'm obsessed. After combing out his hair and making sure it was actually straight, he went downstairs and watched the snow fall. His mom still wasn't up by the time he was leaving, so he ran up to her room and kissed her cheek before grabbing his keys, sweatshirt and backpack. He put on his high-top fully black converse. He ran out to his car and jumped in, waiting for it to heat up a bit. Even though it was only a 2007, the Nissan 350z's heater was a piece of crap.
After he started driving for a few minutes he sa
Onyx Angel part 2As he got closer, he noticed her shoulder bobbing as silent sobs wracked her body. Tristan went to put his hand on her shoulder, but inches away from touching her skin, a crow cawed. She jerked her head up, her hair blowing in the soft wind. The crow land a few feet ahead of her and cocked its head. The snow turned red under its feet as it walked away, towards a heap on the ground. The angel put her hand out and the bird lit with a brilliant flame, causing Tristan to jump back and fall.
Tristan's eyes sprang open. He was lying back in the snow, as the snow fell gingerly on top of him. He went to sit up, but a hand sprang up out of the corner of his vision, landing on his chest, pushing him back down to the ground softly. He gasped as a sweet sounding voice spoke.
"Don't get up, you hit your head hard and you were bleeding. I found you while I was walking back home, oh sorry, I'm Scarlett," She said as Tristan took a few deep breaths to slow his heart rate down.
"It's fine, I'm-," Trist
Onxy Angel part 1The onyx angel sat with her head on her knees, hiding her face from the barren winter's snow. Her long, midnight hair cascaded down her back as her wings sat, crumpled and broken against her pale frame.
Tristan sat up straight in bed. Sweat poured down his chest and his forehead. His black hair was ruffled and hung in his face. He took a deep breath and then shifted his eyes to his clock. 2:16 on a Friday morning. He sighed and then leaned against the wall. Glancing out his window, he noticed something unusual. Cars parked in the driveway next door. Great neighbors, he thought. I was quite alright with being the only family on the street. He looked out the window a bit long before he noticed something else. Soft lights flickering in the room which he presumed to be the attic. Candles.
After trying unsuccessfully to go back to sleep, Tristan decided to go on a walk. He threw on a sweatshirt and went downstairs quietly, as to not wake his mom. He grabbed his iPod off the table and left.
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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