Thread: In Your Anger, Do Not Sin Who: Ambriel and OPEN Where: On top of a tower When: During the last class
The angel stalked through the hallways, his face contorted with anger. Why did nobody ever try to understand him? Why did he have to understand and calm down and stop being so rigid, while the rest of the world never tried to see it from his point of view? Nothing in this world was simple, or made sense. Girls were forbidden from wearing pants, yet all kinds of girls at this school, and the women too - most of them nice, kind, seemingly virtuous - wore pants, and the world kept turning. All demons were evil, but he knew for a fact that one of them wasn't, that he had a soul, which meant that all of them had the potential to be good.
So he'd had to accept that the word of the Lord had been warbled, that not all of it had been entirely... just, or right, or even sensible. But was that true? Because ever since he'd tried to fit in with this world, he got hurt. He had broken his angle, bruised his body, almost snapped his wings. He wasn't in the Lord's favour anymore. But he'd tried changing this world, he'd tried reasoning with others so that they would see the light, but none of them accepted his words. Nobody in this forsaken world tried to be virtuous.
But Ambriel knew they weren't all evil.
Nobody understood that he simply wanted to save all of them. Even the few who actually liked him - people like Davian, Ashton, Ms. Edouard-Gurule - didn't understand how he saw this lost, forsaken world, how he wanted to change it for the better. For them. For his Lord. But now even He had forsaken him, and nobody cared. Nobody understood. Nobody knew that, with every thing in this world, he didn't know whether it was good or evil, right or wrong, holy or infernal.
Nothing ever made sense, including idiotic photography assignments.
Ambriel knew he was too riled up to go to class, he could feel the anger coiling inside of him. He grabbed his thick coat -- the one with the slits inside them, special for his wings -- and slipped it on. He donned his gloves and his hat, stepped outside in the white, wintry world, and took a deep a breath. When he emptied his lungs, it came out white. He spread his wings, broke out into a run and took to the dazzlingly blue sky, a frigid sun casting pale light.
Flying and being alone would call him down. He knew he wasn't supposed to during the day - not too high, at least - but right now, he didn't care. Davian broke the rules all the time and got away with it. The angel needed to feel the wind. When he was done, he found a spire to sit on. As a concession to the rules, he didn't pick the tallest spire on the highest tower, but took a lower one, one near the roof, near windows. There, he perched, sulking.