Infernal Beings

The scent of oil paints and drying canvas clung to Roman as she worked, getting lost in the world of her latest painting. It was a scene of an angel battling demons, a swirling vortex of light and shadow fueled by an obsession she couldn’t explain. Roman was fascinated with the celestial wars and the whispers of Heaven and Hell. It felt like a deep-seated need she couldn’t name. Roman glanced out the window to the streets of Winica; it was still early, and little movement could be seen. She had been doing this same routine for months now, stuck in a never-ending cycle of insomnia caused by the same dream, a cycle that was slowly wearing her down. Roman could never fully see his face, but his presence was dark, formidable, and dominating. Every time she woke, she felt a longing, a pull toward something or someone she couldn’t explain. Roman always reached for her paint and canvas after her dreams, if nothing but to ease her mind. This morning was no different; sitting in her studio looking at her newest painting, she imagined she could fully see the mysterious dream man’s face: the sharp edges to his jaw, the way his dark hair fell over his eyes, and the massive black wings sprouting from his muscular back. Her alarm rang, breaking the silence, and thus, her concentration and the image of the angel she had been painting vanished. Damnit, it was already 5:30 AM, she thought. Roman had been up for 3 hours already. She sighed, got up from where she had been sitting, stretched, and thought, looks like another day full of caffeine.

Roman headed out of the studio, closing the door as she left. She headed to her bedroom down the hall, stopping in the kitchen to set the coffee pot to brew. With the smell of freshly brewed coffee, she began getting ready for work. At 28 years old, she owned a small one-story, 2-bedroom dark blue house in the heart of Winica. The room Roman had chosen for her art studio faced downtown, and the view provided a spectacular display of lights at night. The location was within walking distance of numerous restaurants, shops, and studios, leaving little need for a car, which was great for an artist’s budget.

She sighed, looking in the mirror at the dark bags below her eyes. She had planned on returning to sleep after her dream had woken her, but now she was running on 4 hours of sleep and a full day of teaching instead. Roman wasn’t in the mood to try this morning; besides, she doubted the customers could tell how much effort she put into her appearance. Roman brushed her deep brown hair, pulled it back into a clip, applied a cc cream, and added a few swipes of her favorite mascara. Now, with some caffeine, she might pull off looking like she got 8 hours of sleep. She grabbed her coffee, workbag, and phone and headed out. Turning to lock the front door, Roman noticed a large, deep gray feather on the front porch. Reaching for it, and a shot of dizziness tore through her. Standing back up, she left the feather in its place and moved down the porch steps. I really need to start sleeping, she thought, brushing off the dizziness as a lack of sleep.

Roman reached State of Create, the art studio where she worked and taught classes, at 7:45 AM. She made her way to the back office but hadn’t expected Maya to be there yet. Maya was the opposite of Roman in every way, but their friendship was immediate when they first met. She had platinum blonde hair to Roman’s deep brown, tall where Roman wasn’t, and a smatter of freckles across her pale face. When she entered, Maya’s twin and co-owner of State of Create, Kian, sat in the office chair. Kian, much like Maya, was tall and blonde and had a way of cheering Roman up even on her worst days. Kian and Maya were 30, had lived in Winica since college, and shared a love for art like Roman. Though there had been some attraction between Kian and herself when they first met, they had never acted upon them. Sometimes, Roman could see the lingering looks he gave her or feel his stare as she taught, but Roman never allowed herself to ponder those emotions for long. Not only would it make working together uncomfortable, but Maya was her best friend. A relationship with her twin brother wasn’t something she’d allow herself to entertain.

Kian looked up from the computer as she entered, “Good morning, Rome!” he was one of the only people who used that nic name; everyone else called her Roman. She sat her bag down, “finances this early, Kian?” she asked.

He sighed as he shut the laptop, “Somebody has to run State of Create behind the scenes, and it’s not going to be Maya.”

“No, Maya does the creating,” she chirped as she entered the door behind Roman. Roman plopped into the oversized black chair, sipping her coffee, “Good morning, Maya, enjoy your night?” she smirked. Maya gave her an exasperated look. Okay, Roman thought, “I guess your date didn’t go well?” she questioned.

Maya turned to Roman, “No, it was ok,” she said, “I just feel like there must be a better way of meeting people than online, ya know? It’s not organic; these guys message you because they think you’re hot based on one profile pic and are not interested in my personality or interests”. Roman felt for her; Maya was coming out of a long-term relationship that ended abruptly. She had been trying to put herself out there for months, but the dating scene and use of dating apps disinterested her as much as it did Roman. “I’m sorry, Maya,” she said, “dinner and drinks after work?” “Of course!” she said cheerfully.

Maya left the office, and Roman turned to see Kian observing her. ” What?” she asked. He stood, adjusting his dark blue henley. ” Nothing, Rome. You just look exhausted.”, he said. “You know that’s just a polite way of saying I look like shit, don’t you?” she replied. So much for nobody noticing, she thought to herself.

“Roman, you know that’s not what I meant,” he said, shaking his head so his blonde hair fell into his face. “I just want to make sure you’re ok.”

“I’m fine, Kian. I just didn’t get much sleep last night, and I’ve already been awake for several hours”. Pulling his hair to a knot at the top of his head, exposing his shaved sides, he said, “I guess you’ll be needing extra caffeine then?” “Oh, you know me so well,” Roman replied, smiling up at him. Taking her hand and helping her up, he said, “Come on, we better make sure Maya isn’t scaring away the customers with her music.” They laughed and walked back into the main studio.

Azrael loomed over the dying man, peering into his soul. If the man were conscious, he’d see a towering, winged creature towering above him. It was the same with every soul he captured; he’d look and find the mortal’s life playing out before him like a movie—an endless loop of pain, suffering, love, and hate. Most mortal souls consisted of regret and want for more time.

The dying man lying on the asphalt was no different. Azrael had been working all night, and it was now morning; he could see the purple and pink hues cresting the city horizon. Winica was still new to him, but recently, he had felt a pull toward this city. As the Angel of Death, Azrael was responsible for ferrying souls to their afterlife, their final resting place after their short mortal existence. He had been doing this for longer than he cared to think about, a punishment from the gods for a crime committed.

He didn’t often think about his early life when he was allowed to love, feel, and desire freely. His only responsibility now was to deliver souls and watch their final moments as they took their last breath. Azrael wasn’t the only angel tasked with ferrying souls, but he often felt the heavy burden was his to shoulder alone. He, too, once had been mortal. Now, all that was left was an emptiness and a chasmic void he couldn’t fill.

He reached into the man’s chest, past the blood and protruding ribs, and felt the warmth that lay inside. Pulling out the silver orb, he placed it into the black box he carried. If he peered closely enough, the orb looked like liquid, swirling with images and color. With a deep sigh, he closed the box and looked back at the city silhouetted in the first lights of morning. Though he didn’t require much sleep, he found himself getting little rest. The same dream plagued him. A woman standing in shadow, reaching for him, begging him to save her. He knew it wasn’t Isda. He hadn’t dreamed about her in eons. No, this woman was different, only shrouded in shadow. He could tell she was more petite in stature and curved, whereas Isda was not. Besides, he felt an ache where his soul should be when he looked at her shadow, a feeling he never got with Isda. Every time he awoke, the tattoos on his arms would swirl as if the runic meanings themselves were changing. Unfurling his black wings, Azrael leaped into the sky. He’d make one final stop tonight before heading to sleep.