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A shooting star. Wooshing in the air, it's bright tail contrasting beautifully against the dark, gloomy curtain of the night.
Every human in that small town paused their activities and look up at the sky, staring at the cosmic phenomenon in awe. Children tugged on their parent's sleeve, pointing up at the shooting star above with the exuberance fitting of a child.
'So beautiful!'
' What a magnificent phenomena!'
'God has blessed us of this beautiful sight!'
Those witnessing the fall of the stars each has their own thoughts, varying in perspective but all is under one impression: beautiful.
After the night sky dimmed again, and the beautiful shooting star is gone from sight, everyone retreat back into their homes and continuing their previous activities. As if the star they just worshipped is naught but a passing fly. As if none of them has sworn that the phenomenon had changed their life.
Never turning back, never giving the star even the slightest of concern.
So fleeting is the thing called appreciation.
The falling star wails, the voice getting louder, hoarser as she feels her porcelain skin melting into wax, delicate white feathers burning away as she tore through the sky.
Help me,
She wants to scream.
Help me!
But she soon realised that her vocal chords have pretty much given up after hours and hours of pleading for help.
It hurts!
Everything hurts.
The lump in her throat grows heavier, and heavier, as she tries to scream out her sorrows. The back of her throat burns from the endless screaming, and her heart, oh, her precious little heart, is bleeding. Tearing apart. The small pieces then being stomped over and over and over again.
Her milky eyes, spilling pearly tears have long since dried out. She sees the heavens up above before her ebony lashes flutter shut. Every muscle in her body have given up.
CRASH
Land.
She crushes onto land.
If she still has any energy left to celebrate the end of her painful misery of falling, she would've leaped in glee.
And dear god, everything hurts.
The fallen lays there, silently weeping, her once pure white dress now slowly stained by the bright shade of crimson blood.
She lays there long enough for her blood to pool around her, feeling her torso, legs, arms, face get covered by the warm, thick blood. Some even got into her mouth, and she can taste the metallic tang of her own blood, having no energy at all to spit it out.
She has completely lost the sense of time.
Now, her hair and wings have been completely soaked of her blood, yet she hasn't realised it.
When she finally has enough energy, she slowly, carefully props herself up with her elbows, her body shaking as she tries to get herself to sit up. There have been a few failed attempts, and each time, she falls into the pool of blood and got more of it into her mouth.
She feels cold. So cold. Her hands wrap around her body, trying to preserve warmth, but even her hands are cold.
Ebony eyes stares at the empty space ahead. At the space where there would be her lover sitting there, expressing his concerns, tending her wounds, tell her everything is going to be alright. But he's not here.
BECAUSE HE'S A TRAITOROUS SON OF A BITCH.
She still remembers. She still remembers.
That day, how he proposed to her in a garden of roses, with the most beautiful diamond ring she has ever laid eyes on. She still remembers, how on that day, the same time he proposed to her, he promised he would love her eternally. Pluck the stars for her. Weave a new constellation dedicated to her.
And being the fool she was, she fell for it. Head over heels. She remembers how she swooned over her betrothed words, how her tears spilled from the beauty of their so called love.
And now, he's the reason she's lying here in her own pool of blood.
Tears are now streaming down her glass skin, washing the blood on her face.
She remembers. Remembers how everyone above sing praises for her, yet she's been all too blind to see through their hypocrisy.
Her shoulders shake as her sobs grew heavier.
She remembers how everyone above promised her safety, and that her heart is all she needs to stay safe.
Dainty, bloody fingers reach up her chest where her heart should be, except that instead of her heart being in place, she only finds a huge gaping hole.
She let out a long, broken wail. Her voice is hoarse and her throat hurts.
She cries, and cries, and cries, louder each time, as she realises that this is the first time she had ever spilled tears over her own fate. The first time.
All these hundreds years of living, she had never stopped to think for herself, always going with the wind, always going with what others said. The worst part is, she loved it. She thought that she's helping people. And in a way, she did. But the cost was herself. And now, for the first time, she asks herself,
Is it worth it?
The scream would've torn her throat apart. But her anger ignores her physical boundaries as she continues to scream, facing the sky, the heavens.
She wants to curse the heavens, but she couldn't. She so badly wants to scream,
DIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIE-
But could only afford a wail that reaches the heavens, and that's enough. That's enough. Because the people up above heard the wrathful, agonised scream of Sylvia Plath, the once beloved Angel of Benevolence of Heaven, cursing them for their inevitable fall.
A hot, blazing anger comes rushing to her, and she sees red. Her once gentle hands are now ripping her wings apart, tearing so much feathers until it drew blood. She scratches and tore her wings until they are a tangled, bloody mess. It's supposed to hurt, so why doesn't it? Why can't the pain distract her from her anger? It's supposed to be enough to calm her down. So why doesn't it?
Each individual in heaven felt chills running down their spine upon hearing the pained, maddened scream, fear struck in their hearts after imagining what Slyvia Plath without her benevolent heart would do now that she saw through all the bullshit in heaven.
And that's enough.