Shots sound, bullets break through the sky, and, one by one, pieces of her life fall, cloud blood trailing behind. Through the holes, angels peer down. They watch as the gun splashes into the water. They watch as she lights the match. They watch her run. They watch as her heart goes tumbling into the grass, gathering dirt as it rolled. They watch as each bridge He’d built for her crumbled in hot whomps of fire, the water below covered in a spectrum of grey smudges and smears like last night’s ashtray. When even the dirt begins to burn, the angel closest turns to the others, “Go. Tell the Father she’s stopped believing.” When the angel turns back, the girl’s whole world is a blood red fire. The color of lipstick smeared across last night’s glass, smashed against the door slammed shut.
He takes his sweet ass time, as men are wont to do. By the time He gets there, there is nothing but ember and ash. He slams His fist into his hands and shouts, “God damn it!”
Collectively, the angels cluck their tongues and feign disappointment but smile at His back as He passes, careful He does not see their pride.
And I’ll tell you, it was beautiful—the day she finally gave up and sat, alone, on her throne of ashes.
And all of the Angels did sing.