An Angel Under the Skin

Fallen Angels-Volume 3

Virginie T.

Translated by Nyuyse Ndze Yolande Kelly

© 2021. T. Virginie

Chapter 1
Alexa

I have always loved risk, danger, for as long as I can remember. I value life, like everyone else. However, I can't resist the adrenaline rush of extreme sports. I have tried everything from skydiving to bungee jumping to jumping off a cliff into the ocean. That moment between the wait and the start, that little moment when we are told that this is it, it's our turn, is my favourite of all. It is a mixture of stress, anticipation and impatience. The blood rushes through my veins, my pulse throbs in every fibre and my lungs are ready to explode with my deep, intense breathing. I’ll never get tired of this moment. It was no wonder I turned to motorcycle racing as I grew up. The pallor of my parents when I announced my career plan to them! Of Asian origin, our skin is naturally white. I never thought it could be any whiter! You can't say that it's part of our culture to expose or promote ourselves. Chinese people tend to be discreet and introverted, it seems. But my origins go back three generations and it seems that I have not inherited this trait, much to the dismay of my family. I was born and raised in the United States. I guess I picked up some of the mores and customs. Well, not all of them. All that spring break, collection of boyfriends and very, if not too, drunken parties never attracted me. That doesn’t make me a prude. Simply, with the example of my parents who were married for more than thirty years, I dream of living a true, passionate, unique love. A love like the one that gave birth to me. When I think of my parents, I always feel the same twinge of sadness. They, who always revered life and took great care to preserve it, unlike me, died in an ordinary car accident three years ago. Three long years of living each moment to the fullest, more aware than ever that anything can happen, that everything can stop in less than a second. A simple snap of the fingers and everything can stop forever. That's how long it took the drunk driver to run a red light at full speed and then hit the oncoming car head-on. My mother died instantly. My father died only a few hours later. It seems that even in death they didn't want to part. I crawl to chase away the tears that threaten to flow under this painful memory. This is not the time to be distracted unless I want to join them, which I am not ready to. The starting signal will be given in a few minutes. I mustn't be confused if I want to win the race. And I do. Oh yes, I do! I'm not short of money, but I don’t mind having a little bonus. I walk among the competitors in the dark street, only lit by a few car headlights. As a teenager, I never imagined that to indulge my passion I would have to break the law. I am for order and justice. I had always respected the rules. However, I quickly became disillusioned when I realised that girls were not given the same treatment as men in motorbike racing. No more than in F1, mind you. Why shouldn't a woman be able to drive at high speed? The excuse put forward by the big shots in the field is that it is a very physical sport. Indeed, every race requires extreme concentration, both mental and physical. Every muscle is put to the test throughout the circuit and you tend to lose weight under the intense heat and effort of a long race. Lose weight? Every woman's dream! These macho men from another age forget that today's motorbikes are no longer those of the 1950s. Or rather, they pretend to ignore it. Machines have evolved a lot. The technical prowess has made them much more accessible to all types of riders, including the frailest such as a woman. Moreover, simulator tests have shown that women perform just as well as men. To justify the rejection of women as pilots, the race managers then put forward the ultimate argument: the survival instinct. It is said that women only think about having a family and therefore are reluctant to take risks during a race, unlike the men who would not have this kind of priority. I get angry when I remember the smugness of the manager of the team where I applied when this idiot told me this nonsense. I am not a woman in need of affection who is desperate to get knocked up. I belong to this generation of independent women who are in love with freedom and going beyond themselves. Motorcycling is my breath of fresh air, my drug, and I am far from reluctant to accelerate to get through hairpin bends when many slow down for fear of an unfortunate exit.

In short! All this to explain my presence here, in this street, for an illegal race. I didn't want to give up on my dream and in order to indulge my passion and make a profit, I resorted to this subterfuge. I run my hand across the back of my neck to check that no strands of hair are sticking out. Everything is fine. My hair is completely camouflaged under my full face helmet. The organiser of these underground races agreed to give me a chance three years ago. After the death of my parents, I needed motivation to get up in the morning. The stables had all closed the door on me, so I looked for another way to practice my art than the official races and I came across Diego around a turn in a path. Well, OK, I kind of searched for him. I followed biker groups at night in the hope of meeting this kind of gathering. I had waited patiently for the various races of the evening to end, then I had walked towards him with a determined step. There was no way he would laugh at me like all the others.

— Hi.

— Hi, beautiful. Sorry, but the betting's over for tonight. It's time to go to sleep. But if you want some company...

No thank you. Diego’s quite the type. He's got a bad boy tattoo that I like, but I knew in advance that mixing business with pleasure would be a mistake. I wanted to have my chance for my talent and not for my ass. So I politely declined the offer. I had another one to make.

— No, thank you. I'm not here for that.

— What can I do for you then?

— I want to run.

Diego stopped counting his cash and stared at me intently.

— This is not a playground for little girls.

I didn't give in to his scepticism and sarcasm.

— It's a good thing I'm not one anymore. I've been riding a motorbike since I was fourteen.

— Riding doesn't mean running.

That's quite true. Riding a motorbike every day doesn't make you a racer.

— Race with me if you want to see what I'm capable of.

He shook his head, his face was serious. I'll never forget the fleeting hint of regret in his pupils.

— Nope. That's all over for me. Now I just organise the races and take the bets.

— Why?

— Because I value life.

I didn't need to know any more. Everything was said with that simple sentence. I nodded my head to signal my understanding. Some accidents are lifelong. But I didn't agree with his reasoning. I feel alive on a motorbike, more alive than ever.

— Test me in any way you like.

Diego bent his head to one side. I found out later that this was his habit when he was thinking.

— I have no time to lose.

— That's good, because neither do I.

His lip had risen slightly on the left side, proof that he was holding a smile.

— You won't give up, will you?

— I'm stubborn as a mule and I have a lot of time on my hands. I'll come back and pester you every night until you give in.

He then laughed outright as he tucked his wad of cash into his trousers.

— OK. I agree to give you a chance on one condition.

— What condition?

— You hide the fact that you are a woman.

I jumped at the chance even though I didn't like the fact that I was hiding who I was. I was proud to be a woman in an essentially male environment.

— Okay.

— Don't frown like that, gorgeous. Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against women on motorbikes. It's just that some of the competitors might not want to race alongside you. It's what I do for a living. You're cute, but I wouldn't sacrifice my income for your ass. You'll be a runner like the rest. You have to prove yourself to stay in the race and whatever happens, I'm not responsible for you. You run at your own risk. Don't come crying to me if you crash your bike.

I hadn't thought about it for more than ten seconds. Finally, I had a chance. I didn't want to let it slip away.

— When do I start?

Well hidden under my leather jacket and my opaque visor, I had won my first race the very next evening. This was followed by a long series of victories, as well as a few defeats, and above all, a solid friendship. Diego had said that he would not take me under his wing. In theory, perhaps, in practice, he was never far from me, like an older brother looking after the youngest member of the family.

I can see him striding towards me.

— Hi Alex.

— Hi. How's the evening going?

— It's great.

Perfect That means there's a lot of bets and the winner gets a lot of money. I don’t spit on a few cash. It pays my rent and allows me a few extras such as a movie or a restaurant, plus the maintenance of my big car which I look after in my spare time.

— Alex, be careful.

Diego looks worried. He looks left and right, looking for something.

— As usual. Is there any problem?

He rubs his completely shaved head.

I don't know. See the guy on the red ninja? The one right in front of the starting line?

I look at the place he pointing and I see the kawazaki he is talking about. The rider, wearing a helmet, looks like all the other competitors.

— Yes.

— There are rumours about him.

Diego tilts his head. He's never been more interested in rumours. They're often untrue, by the way. There's even one about me that says I never take my helmet off because I'm disfigured after a serious accident. If Diego is interested in this particular gossip, there must be a good reason.

— What sort of things?

— The kind that gets you in the hospital or the morgue.

I don't like what I'm hearing. Some people will do anything to win, even the worst.

— What can I expect?

— It seems that he has a preference for sudden swerves to send his opponents into a tailspin.

— Why is he still running?

— Because the victims were in no condition to confirm the police's suspicions. Vegetables and dead people don't talk and you know there are never any witnesses in these events.

Yeah, I know. Strangely enough, as soon as there's an accident, everyone vanishes in a minute, just taking the time to call for help. That's the way it is, that's the rule of the game. When you participate in underground races, you know the risks and you accept them.

— Don't worry about me. I'll make sure I keep him in my rearview mirror.

If he's far behind me, he can't harm me. Diego nods, still worried.

— We meet at the finish line.

I crack my neck and then roll my shoulders to relax my contracted muscles. Diego will soon give the starting signal. It's time to clear my mind and remember the course. One kilometre of bitumen consisting of turns and broad straight lines in the middle of traffic. A kilometre where every decision can cost you your life. I inhale and exhale deeply several times in a row. I am an ace in my field. However, I am not immune to the unexpected.

Chapter 2
Alexa

My body is white-hot, my feet firmly planted on the ground, and I stare intently at Diego. The roar of my motorbike reverberates throughout my body. I merge with my machine. I become one with my GSXR. My bike is my baby. I take care of it every day, I regularly maintain its engine, and I make sure that everything is in good working order and in good condition. With a car, a fault will cause an accident, but not necessarily your death. On two wheels, the slightest incident can be fatal. There is no bodywork to protect you. If you fall, it is your body that is smashed to the ground. That's why I look after my bike like the most precious of jewels. It is entirely original - why go and modify a flawless piece of silverware? - except for the suspension. I'm pretty short, even for a woman. So I had it lowered so that my feet could touch the road.

Diego finally steps up to the starting line, raising my stress level. We are twelve participants. Twelve excited bikers dreaming of victory, knowing that there will only be one winner. Some of them are roaring their engines, playing with the throttle to impress their opponents. I don't pay much attention. I only pay attention to the flag in the organiser's hand. As soon as he drops it on the ground, the bikes start. The first few seconds are decisive. Everything begins at the start. If you fall behind in the first few metres, you're finished. You will never catch up. This is also the moment of danger. In the rush to take the lead, there are many careless mistakes. The kind of mistake that makes you fall or knock over a competitor, like the rider of this green Kawazaki who just clipped the tyre of the bike in front of him before sliding sideways. His paint job is not going to be pretty. I don't linger to see if the rider gets up or not. The fall was not brutal. In any case, he won't be hurt badly. At worst, a broken leg if it got stuck under the bike. On my side, I pick up speed, swallowing the tarmac as if I had fire on my heels. The wind rushes under the collar of my jacket, caressing my skin with vigour. I love this feeling. The lights of the city flash before my eyes, the competitors are still visible in my rear view mirror. However, most of them are already too far away to have any chance of catching me. The biggest danger at the moment is the traffic. It is Saturday evening. There are many vehicles in the street. Young revellers going out to a nightclub or going to a bar for a drink. I take care to slalom as little as possible so as not to lose speed. Unfortunately, a 4X4 comes along without warning and forces me to swerve. This is the opportunity my opponent was waiting for to go on the offensive. I can hear it before I see it. His engine roars under the powerful acceleration and the Kawasaki that Diego asked me to watch out for bursts into my field of vision like a fury. As I concentrate on straightening my own bike to regain speed after the necessary slowing down earlier, my opponent pushes his throttle hard.

He rides up the line of cars like a madman, not paying attention to the other drivers. The drivers are forced to move aside to let him pass between the lanes, at the risk of creating a collision. I can see where he gets his reputation from. He is more interested in winning than in his own life, but also without any consideration for the lives of others. This is not my case. I intend to grow old a little longer. So I choose to play it safe and stay at a reasonable distance from the leader without letting myself get too far ahead. I take a series of tight corners and long straights, each time gaining a few precious metres that will make all the difference in the last straight. My bike has nothing to envy to his. Like his, my bike easily climbs to 300 kms/h. I hold on with all my strength to stay in the saddle under the impetus of the 220 horsepower. My arms are tense from the effort and I know in advance that they will be sore for several days. I arrive at the last bottleneck, the one before the bridge just before the finish line. It's up to me to show this handlebar freak the difference between driving and running. I square my shoulders even more if possible, squeeze my thighs over the body of my GSXR to become one with my machine and lie down completely on the tank to keep the wind resistance to a minimum. My face does not protrude from the protective bubble. From a distance I'm sure I'm barely distinguishable from the bike. Luckily, there are fewer cars on this part of the course, which allows me to do more manoeuvres without taking risks. I make up for my delay at high speed, choosing to take the bridge on the left to get away from my competitor who is going to the right. I have almost passed him when he suddenly turns and cuts me off. I brake as much as I can without taking the risk to make a sun over my handlebars and turn in the opposite direction. Unfortunately I am too close to the pillar and the Kawasaki doesn't give me any leeway. I know long before it happens that I can't avoid it. Well, well before is a bit of an exaggeration. Some people say that before dying, you see your whole life flash before you. All I see is a huge concrete pillar that I'm running into. I want to scream my fear, but the sound is stuck in my throat. I think of my parents. Were they scared? Did they think of me just before the accident? Did they even have time to say "I love you" one last time before they died? This is my biggest regret. To die before I met the person who will make me want to live.

The shock is unbelievably violent. I feel as if my bones are literally crushed between the pillar of the bridge and my bike. The noise is even more frightening than the sensation, if that's possible. My whole body cracks, the bike screams as much as I do in an outburst of broken metal and plastic. I cry for myself and for her. When everything gets quiet, my body feels like it's on fire and my ears are ringing. Through my cracked helmet visor I see a motorcyclist slowing down beside me. Help. I'm going to get help. My hopes are dashed when I recognise the flames on the helmet of the driver who sent me into the fray. My disjointed body prevents me from telling him what I think of him. I'm dying to make him swallow his sadistic smile as he towers over me. Strange how my mind is alive while my body is broken. His bike speeds off after he gives me a final wave. My lack of movement has misled him. He thinks I am dead. I am far from it and I hope that if I succumb, I will come back to haunt him. Soon, or long after, I don't know, a commotion forms around me. A hubbub rises. Only no one comes to my aid. I am cold, the pain has given way to a general numbness, which is preferable by the way, and my brain starts to slow down. I find it increasingly difficult to form coherent thoughts. I want to remember every detail to tell the police, only it is becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate. I can vaguely hear a tyre squeal not far from me and shouts, probably from onlookers who are standing idly by.

- ALEX !

Diego. Diego is beside me.

- Has anyone called for help?

My visor is raised with infinite gentleness. My friend is careful not to move my head.

- Hey, beautiful. What are you doing to us?

I try to form a word. I want to reassure him. I want to tell him that I'm still here and that everything is going to be all right, but I can't.

- Shh. Save your strength. The fire-fighters will soon be here. They'll get you back on your feet, my beauty.

I blink to show him that I've heard him, that I've understood him. A tear rolls down his cheek.

- I told you to be careful.

He shakes his head. I'm the one on the ground, yet I feel him as broken as I am.

- I should have stopped you from running. Damn it.

I let out a faint trickle of voice to comfort him.

- You are not responsible for me.

His mirthless laughter breaks my heart and soul.

- Don't give me that bullshit. Of course I'm responsible for you. I took you under my wing from the first day. You're like my little sister. Shit! Don't let me down.

I can feel the numbness slowly creeping over me.

- Come on, Alex. Listen. The sirens. Hold on.

The cold is gone. I can't feel anything but a gentle stillness. I'm not alone anymore. I was never alone. Diego is watching over me. I can let go.

- Hey! ALEX ! DON'T DO THAT!

I don't resist anymore and dive into the black hole.

I feel as if I am floating above my own body. I see myself, I see the doctors working around me. I watch them palpate me and stick infusions in my arm, take blood samples and stick sensors on my chest. It's very strange to see ourself, to know that we are being touched, yet feel nothing. I run my hand over my arm, but there is no hose, no bandage. I am a spectator of my own death.

- It is time.

I jump to the ceiling. I didn't think anyone could see me. I thought I was some kind of shadow or spectre. I turn to the deep voice that addressed me and my jaw drops at the sight of the man. What am I saying? He is not a man. Not quite. Despite his masculine appearance, the wings on his back do not deceive me. Immense, immaculate wings. I'm looking at a fucking angel! His eyes crinkle a little. Shit! Did I say that out loud? His mouth twitches under the smile he holds back. Shit once more! Is he reading my mind? I'm starting to panic. I don't want anyone to get inside my head! I start reciting my multiplication tables, which turns out to be more difficult than expected since I never really knew them by heart. This seems to amuse the newcomer a lot.

- Calm down Alexa. I don't want to hurt you. I'm not here to judge you.

I take a deep breath of air. That is, if I'm breathing. I'm not sure. Especially when I see my own body, my physical body, with a huge pipe coming out of my mouth.

- Am I dead?

- Like life, death is not as simple as one might think.

Great. An enigma. Precisely, in such a solemn moment, a riddle was missing. I've never been good at riddles. I press my lips together and bite my tongue. I believe. I don't feel anything.

- Which is it?

- The choice is yours.

- Can I choose to resume my life or pass into the afterlife? Is it up to me?

He nods his head in affirmation. Hm. Where's the catch? Because let's not fool ourselves. If everyone had a choice, there would be a lot less death on earth.

- You're right.

Ah ! I knew he could read my mind.

- The Ultimate Angel gives you a choice because your death is an injustice.

- I don't get it!

- It's easy: you still have important things to do on this earth and the Ultimate Angel is giving you the opportunity to do them. You would also be a blessing among us.

- What thing? And who is the Ultimate Angel? And what does that mean among you?

- I don't have the answer to your first question and I can't answer the second. As for the latter, the Ultimate Angel feels that you belong in the eternal resting place, if that is your desire. Now you must choose. However, I warn you, staying alive will cost you more than you can imagine. To go against death is not trivial.

And one more riddle, one. It's surreal! I am talking to an angel and I have the right to choose life. Moreover, I should pay the price. A high price. Decision, decision...

- I want to live.

I've never been afraid of challenges. I like challenges. The angel nods and snaps his fingers. I feel like I’m being propelled forward, towards my body, as the angel's deep voice echoes in my head.

"Fight to survive. You will not remember me, but I will watch over you as long as the Ultimate Angel will let me.

After an endless fall feeling, I regain possession of my body, my soul and my pain. I would like to shout out my suffering, but I am as if paralyzed. My eyes do not open. I can't make any movement. I feel as if I am in a body that no longer functions, that does not belong to me. But I can hear everything.

- The heart has started again. Encephalogram OK. No pupillary reaction. Multiple fractures. Probably cranial haemorrhage. She's in a deep coma. Run her every Glasgow tests. I'll let her friend know she's in a critical state.

Diego. It must be him. I'll fight for him. I'm gonna get through this. I'm going to live and make the man who sent me here pay.

Chapter 3
Yekun

With my dermograph in hand, I trace the lines with application, following the lines I have sketched with the pen without ever deviating. My art is not an exact science, but a painting where the body becomes a work of art. I never imagined I would have my own tattoo parlour. It is thanks to Azazel that I am where I am today. I arrived on his doorstep in the middle of the night, like all the fallen ones before me. I smile as I recall his statement: being fallen is not a fate, but the beginning of a new life. I couldn't agree with him more. After all, I pushed the Ultimate Leader to banish me knowingly. I knew I wouldn't regret it. And I still don't, two centuries later. How could it be otherwise? I keep my mind closed as much as I can, and the vibrations of my device allow me to forget the voices the rest of the time. I hasten to finish the trace on my client, who does not move an inch. I prefer this to clients who whine throughout the session, complaining that it's painful or that it's taking too long. No, I'm not a magician! A tattoo is done with needles that penetrate deep into the epidermis. Besides, I can't draw a dragon in thirty minutes. I'm a fallen angel, not the superhero on TV who's as fast as lightning! On the other hand, I fly. That's better, isn't it? Except that the average person doesn't know it and that's just as well. I have no desire for lost souls to come knocking on my door for help. If I've done everything I could to be fallen, it's certainly not to do it again once on Earth. Anyway. It is precisely because I owe Azazel so much that I hurry to finish with the man lying on my table. My friend asked me to do him a favour. Although I found his approach a little strange, I agreed to his request. I couldn't see myself refusing him. I just hope he knows what he's doing.

The woman named Mallory stares at me without moving. I can see the fear shining in her pupils. Azazel explained her friend's phobia to me. I wouldn't have believed it if I didn't see her right now. More than a phobia, it is a relentless struggle against breathtakingly painful memories that is playing out before me. Azazel taught me to close my mind in order to live among humans. However, I cannot shut off strong emotions and there is none more powerful than fear and anger. Mallory is feeling both right now. Yet I can see that it's not directed at me. So I give her time to adjust to the new data. After all, many people are put off by my appearance. I am tattooed all over. My arms, neck and legs. Not a patch of skin is left out. Only my back has not been inked, as it is already covered by the representation of my wings. Against all odds, Mallory chooses to trust Azazel, and thus me, in turn, and hesitantly steps forward to kiss me.

- Nice to meet you.

Her little voice is quite pleasant. The arrival of Caitlyn, and now Mallory, in our testosterone-filled group is a blessing. It changes the conversation a bit. I love my brothers. However, in the centuries we've known each other, I needed a little change. Abaddon and Kasyade have already told me a lot about Mallory and I was looking forward to getting to know her. The evening is very pleasant. We talk, we joke, like at any family reunion for real. To a stranger, we are a classic group. No one would imagine that the most powerful people the earth has ever borne are gathered in this room. Azazel asks us in turn about our plans. He comes to me last. My plans are simple: to expand my tattoo shop.

- I'm going to hire a new tattoo artist and a hostess.

Mallory's curiosity overcomes her apprehensions. She has relaxed during the evening and doesn't hesitate to ask me questions.

- Do you have a tattoo parlour?

Ha ! If she asks me about my baby, I'm not about to shut up. Angel's Ink is my most prized possession and I am extremely proud of it.

- For many years, yes. It was I who inked Azazel's skin.

As well as Abaddon's. However, I'm sure she's only interested in the first of the Fallen.

- They are very well done. Especially the wings on his back.

Azazel warned me that she knows nothing of our nature. I'm not going to lie to her, though. I've never drawn angel wings. Not even once. Even when a client comes to me with this request, I refuse. Angel wings are not decorative. If you're not born with them, why add them? I guess I think that way because I've never considered them a blessing. I prefer to deflect the conversation, although I suspect the answer to my question.

- And you, Mal, do you have any tattoos?

She shakes her head sharply, making her hair fly in all directions, and opens up to me without fear.

No offense, but I knew a man who had both arms tattooed and he hurt me a lot. I've associated your art with my pain for a long time, so...

She doesn't need to say any more. I understand her pain. It echoes in my head, as it does in the heads of my brothers who unconsciously wince. All except Azazel and Baraqiel. For Baraqiel, I understand. Since he's been linked to Caitlyn, he's only felt his wife's emotions. For Azazel, however, I am more puzzled. He is in love with Mallory, that much is obvious. Yet he doesn't seem to be touched by her distress. However, I wish Mallory would look at the tattoos in a different way. I have seen how the young woman strokes Cerberus. That dog may be impressive, but he always melts the ladies.

- You know, it's not the tattoos that do the bad things, but the people who wear them, just as a dog is not born evil, but can become evil because of its owner.

I see Mallory thinking about my words. She is smart. She knows her fear is irrational.

- You're right.

I'm glad to see that, although her fear is still there, she puts it into perspective. I can even ignore it now that Mallory is putting it in the background. I'm really glad I helped her even though I know she still has a long way to go. Azazel then continues the conversation.

- Do you also tattoo damaged skin?

That's a strange question for an angel who can't be hurt.

- It happens to me.

- Is it okay to have scars?

I see Mallory curling up on herself. I feel her tense and hesitate to answer. I'm not sure what Azazel is getting at. Only, the first fallen one has his eyes fixed on me, waiting, and I cannot do otherwise.

It depends on the scars and the pattern to be made. The design must be adapted to the texture and thickness of the skin to draw the eye to the representation and not to what it hides.

The scars must also be old, at least two years old, so that the skin has had time to regain some thickness. However, given the sudden mood, there is no need to go into detail. Mallory stands up straight, tense to the extreme. Her emotions choke me with their intensity. Rage, betrayal and sadness. A disaster is unfolding before us and Azazel seems to have no idea of the extent of the damage he is causing. This is confirmed when he clamps Mallory to his chest, preventing her from moving, to lift the back of her t-shirt.

- Could you cover this up?

He exposes the young woman's suffering for all to see. She must have gone through hell. Her back is all kinds of marks made by a sharp blade. I can't mistake the origin of the wounds. I've often inflicted them on myself to finally feel something that comes from me alone.

- Yekun?

I'm too shocked to answer. I feel like my skull is going to explode from Mallory's rage. It's a real physical pain for me. Especially when the anger of all the people in the room is added to it. Azazel finally pulls down the shirt of the young woman who runs away after having hit Azazel without restraint. I am tempted to do the same. He has humiliated his wife and reopened the wound of her greatest shame. Moreover, I am angry with him for having put me in a more than uncomfortable position. If he had explained to me why I was coming tonight, I would have declined the invitation with all due respect to him. I thought I was coming to help Mallory overcome her phobia. In reality, he used me to trap her. I prefer to leave without further ado.

Despite the late hour, I go to the only place that can soothe my torment: Angel's Ink. I caress the wooden counter with my fingertips and look at the pictures of my work on the walls. My baby has grown up. When I opened it, I was a small, unknown tattoo artist who only wanted to please myself. Today, I am a recognized tattoo artist whose clients flock to the shop to have their skin inked by me. I even have a full agenda months in advance, which is why I have to recruit a tattoo artist and a receptionist. And to think that it all started for my own relief. Unlike my brothers, my downfall was not due to my disobedience. My problem came from my nature itself. Being an angel means putting the feelings of your protégés before your own. If at first this did not cause me any problems, over the centuries it became a pain. As an angel working for the Ultimate Leader, we are forbidden to close our minds. In fact, I only knew how to do this when I arrived on Earth, following Azazel's advice. The problem was that I could stand less and less the thoughts of others in my head. I longed for more. What I really wanted was to feel my own emotions, my own pain. So I found an unstoppable way. I cut myself. I took a blade and cut myself. I slashed the flesh of my arm all the way from the shoulder to the wrist. Strangely enough, it did me a world of good. Our wounds heal almost instantly, but we still feel the pain. For that brief moment, I finally felt something that belonged to me alone. The benefit of the cut was short-lived, however. My recovery came too quickly. One of my protégés needed me and my desire to start again was left unfulfilled. I did my duty with devotion, as in the beginning of my creation. However, my heart was no longer in it. For several decades, in fact. It was not enough to remember my brief moment of existence, because that is how I saw it. I wanted to live for myself. I felt a pressing need to do so, and to achieve this I had to mutilate myself. I am not a masochist. I don't like pain. I don't like my own pain any more than I like the pain of others. I just wanted to feel something else that belonged to me alone. So I got into the habit of stabbing or cutting myself in multiple places more and more often. Until I was doing it every day, then several times a day. But the Ultimate Leader sees everything and he didn't really appreciate my new hobby. He didn't agree with my idea of life. Not at all! He said that it was not worthy of an angel and that I had to pull myself together. At that time, I still wanted to be an angel. I didn't want to become a fallen one. I had obviously heard of Azazel, as had all my people. I knew that others had suffered the same fate. However, we didn't know what happened to the Fallen once they were stranded on Earth. I was not ready to leave the Other World. So I made a solemn promise not to harm myself again as long as I had the status of an angel. This promise was harder to keep than I thought. The Ultimate Leader had given me more protégés than usual to keep my mind occupied. He had not understood that it was the screams of my protégés in my head that threatened to drive me mad! I was becoming irascible and dangerous. Until one day I had to intervene to prevent the death of one of my protégés. I threw myself in front of him, and the sword blow that was intended for him went right through my abdomen. What happiness I felt! Behind the pain, there was only me. It was my pain. From that day on, I did everything to put myself in danger. I preferred to fight with swords, sabres and other weapons of all kinds as long as they had a blade, and I only used my power as a last resort. In this way, my opponents had time to inflict wounds on me before I finished them off. I had found a way to keep my promise and at the same time get back what I had missed so much. Of course, the Ultimate Leader was not fooled for long. He gave me an ultimatum: life as an angel with no emotions of my own, or life as a fallen one. I chose decay. I couldn’t go on fooling myself. I landed on Azazel's doorstep, my brain on fire from the pressure of all the locals. He began by teaching me to close my mind to the emotions of others. What a relief it was the first time I did it! However, I had resumed my bad habits. I was cutting myself several times a day. Azazel didn't say anything even though he knew it. One day he took me to this small, colourful place where a stranger with coloured skin was waiting for me. I got my first tattoo and was ecstatic. Finally. I became addicted to this sensation, a mixture of pain and joy, and what's more, I kept a record of it. The idea then arose to make it my profession. I learned the job from the very man who was carving his work into my flesh, and here I am, in my own living room. Being a fallen man brought me redemption, being a tattoo artist, a purpose in life. I sit on the leather seat that creaks under my weight. I caress my dermograph like I would caress a woman. It is the extension of my arm, the love of my life, even if I hope, like Baraqiel, to meet the one who will make my heart beat. Although. When I think of Azazel's behaviour tonight, I hope to be a fool myself the day I fall in love. I light the torch and approach the flame to my forearm without hesitation. I want to leave a reminder of my brother on me, to remind me not to follow his example. Only I have no more room. So I burn my flesh to make the intricate patterns disappear. I can't help but smile under the crackling heat. The smell of burning flesh bothers me a little, but never mind. I turn off the gas and watch the skin gradually reform, leaving no trace of charred flesh. It's as if nothing had happened, except that all the ink has disappeared. Once the skin is completely smooth, I grab my dermograph and the various inks, turn it on, and begin to stitch myself into an intricate web, much like Azazel and Mallory's relationship.

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