[OOC] Drop Box
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October 2011
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Dec. 31st, 2035
Oct. 15th, 2011
It could not have been any more innocent.
The holiest of holies trapped in the embodiment of sin, head bowed in the shower, water peltering onto his skin, dripping off his hair. The shower is a ritual more so than a necessity, for the body lost its 'human-ness', the moment Michael took its place. Michael himself had no real recollection of humanity and what it entailed.
The shower was a place and time to be quiet and still, to be attuned to and wait on God. Sacred, quiet spaces could be found in a church, it could be a bed - he cannot remember the last time he slept but he does lie down from time to time - it could be anywhere really. But the sound of the water drowned out everything else around him.
Maybe it was drowning out the voice of God as well.
He was far from being disconcerted by the persistent absence of word. He was not impatient and there were many around him - he could sense them, faintly, for Lucifer overpowered everything - who were working, and could easily send word if it did not come from Lucifer himself.
The maid is confronted by a man without clothes emerging from the bathroom and, while she could appreciate the view, her first instinct was to drop the laundry basket in her hands and scream.
It could not have been any more disturbing. And wrong. And, oh my god - was Mr. Preston gay?
The holiest of holies trapped in the embodiment of sin, head bowed in the shower, water peltering onto his skin, dripping off his hair. The shower is a ritual more so than a necessity, for the body lost its 'human-ness', the moment Michael took its place. Michael himself had no real recollection of humanity and what it entailed.
The shower was a place and time to be quiet and still, to be attuned to and wait on God. Sacred, quiet spaces could be found in a church, it could be a bed - he cannot remember the last time he slept but he does lie down from time to time - it could be anywhere really. But the sound of the water drowned out everything else around him.
Maybe it was drowning out the voice of God as well.
He was far from being disconcerted by the persistent absence of word. He was not impatient and there were many around him - he could sense them, faintly, for Lucifer overpowered everything - who were working, and could easily send word if it did not come from Lucifer himself.
The maid is confronted by a man without clothes emerging from the bathroom and, while she could appreciate the view, her first instinct was to drop the laundry basket in her hands and scream.
It could not have been any more disturbing. And wrong. And, oh my god - was Mr. Preston gay?
Sep. 19th, 2011
Michael doesn't think much of it. It's a Friday night, people get drunk and do silly things, hurt themselves and sometimes, unfortunately, those around them. More people than usual - maybe there was an event in the city. He doesn't keep up with those. All cities are just blurs of lights and strange noises.
He's helped a dozen people by now. Two dozen. Sirens blazing down the street. Three dozen. Anarchy outside pubs. Fifty.
Scraped knees and a cut near the eye, where people didn't think they needed anyone's help. Sometime during the night he stops counting. He doesn't notice, all the lives he has touched, all he has done to help others. All they were unknowingly doing to try and take him apart.
And then he, too, starts slipping away. Affected by whatever was in the air, or perhaps in the water. Affected by those who he touched, those who brushed up against him, imparting something foreign and destructive onto him, pulling the feathers off his wings with tweezers and pliers.
At half ten Lucas Preston receives a phone call from the hospital. There's an unidentified male - around six feet, dark blond hair, blue eyes, didn't speak a word of anything; in fact he seemed almost catatonic, with very minor injuries but otherwise fine - who was only carrying less than ten dollars, this phone number written on a blank name card, and an old rosary made of wood, with funny symbols inscribed on the cross.
He's helped a dozen people by now. Two dozen. Sirens blazing down the street. Three dozen. Anarchy outside pubs. Fifty.
Scraped knees and a cut near the eye, where people didn't think they needed anyone's help. Sometime during the night he stops counting. He doesn't notice, all the lives he has touched, all he has done to help others. All they were unknowingly doing to try and take him apart.
And then he, too, starts slipping away. Affected by whatever was in the air, or perhaps in the water. Affected by those who he touched, those who brushed up against him, imparting something foreign and destructive onto him, pulling the feathers off his wings with tweezers and pliers.
At half ten Lucas Preston receives a phone call from the hospital. There's an unidentified male - around six feet, dark blond hair, blue eyes, didn't speak a word of anything; in fact he seemed almost catatonic, with very minor injuries but otherwise fine - who was only carrying less than ten dollars, this phone number written on a blank name card, and an old rosary made of wood, with funny symbols inscribed on the cross.
Jul. 2nd, 2011
"Angels do not dream," He said, when Michael was very young and the world was still a figment of His imagination, waiting to come into fruition. Michael doesn't question Him, because He is always right, but Michael doesn't know how else to explain it when his semblance of a mind wanders to strange, fantastic places - some familiar, some not.
Sometimes his mind wandered to very dark places, bringing him to his knees before the brother he unreservedly admired, his ultimate failure. He can still remember Lucifer's song, and he knows those tainted, bloodied hands that pluck the soft, white feathers off his battered wings.
Angels do not dream. But do they have fantasies?
Doubt is where it all begins.
Sometimes his mind wandered to very dark places, bringing him to his knees before the brother he unreservedly admired, his ultimate failure. He can still remember Lucifer's song, and he knows those tainted, bloodied hands that pluck the soft, white feathers off his battered wings.
Angels do not dream. But do they have fantasies?
Doubt is where it all begins.
May. 15th, 2011
In the stillness and silence you can still hear His voice reverberating through the stained glass windows.