e3dd00a907c31107a08c6b0645c824fc-700

(continued)

Portland, OR

Jan. 23rd, 2019

the child known as Amaya began to hate by the time she was four. She hated her parents, those lying, deceitful beings that kept her alive but not much else. By age six she learned that they made money on her, that they collected money from her birthdays and even during holidays when relatives gave her money. They kept it for themselves and acted like model parents, treating her with love and kindness that was as false as the smiles on their faces. Those smiles disappeared when they returned home to their trailer park home. It was kept up nice, but in no way accommodated a young girl growing up. She had to feed herself, bathe herself, brush her hair, her teeth, and dress herself to their liking to be made to appear as a well-adjusted little girl. There was hell to pay if she did not.-

Damn you! the spirit roared, Stop this!

Amaya hated them with a deep and resounding passion but was smart enough to know that she could strike out against them, as they would repay this in kind with their own brand of cruelty, as they had done on a few occasions when they felt she deserved it. She’d had her right arm broken for being what they’d said was quiet arrogance, she’d received a black eye from her father after asking him to help her in opening a jar of jelly, and her mother had even come close to allowing her to die of heat exhaustion by denying her air conditioning in her room during a particularly hot summer. She hadn’t been allowed to open her window, only to sit there in quiet contemplation looking at the bare walls of her room, hating them even more deeply than before. All that had happened to her they’d explained away, and they’d been believed-

I beg you, STOP!

“God’s mercy,” breathed a voice in front of her, and finally Amaya looked up, seeing an armor-clad stranger that looked absolutely beautiful, shining, and regal in his shining suit and with his white, shimmering wings spread out behind him.

She felt more than saw as Azazel, demon that he was, flew from her, or tried to as she latched on tightly and used the demon in that moment as the tool that she’d been seeking for so long, something with which to finally exact her revenge. She might only be a girl, but her anger ran deep, deeper than most hells could contain, and darker than any angel would dare to venture into. She had studied for years now the lore and any and all tomes she could find on angels and demons, and she had laid her trap perfectly. Implausible as it was, a young girl had found the means to defeat them both, and was prepared to do so without hesitation.

The angel hesitated. His mistake.

(to be concluded)

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