***

– ANIEL – The Angel of Change.

***

On my way, I didn't encounter a single vehicle. No one in the streets either, as if the city had suddenly become deserted.

After walking too much, my feet ache more and more. Fortunately, the path on foot is shorter than by car, or I would have ended up barefoot.

Finally back home, I notice the front door is wide open. I must have forgotten to close it when I left, and it must have swung open with the wind, I think.

Once inside, I discover the place in complete disarray, and a sense of unease washes over me.

The walls of the living room are painted red with strange drawings. My heart pounds faster as I approach and notice they were freshly painted. Then, for a split second, my heart stops when I realize the red paint is actually blood.

The shock makes me stagger backward, and I fall onto the floor. As I hit the ground, my hand brushes against what made me lose my balance.

I inhale sharply, holding my breath, fearing the worst. Surely it can't be...

When I turn my head to see what this soft and slippery thing is, I find dead birds. Convincing myself that the blood on the walls comes from these animals and not from my family, I finally exhale. The birds have been gutted, their organs scattered across the floor. What kind of barbarian could do such a thing to these poor creatures? But more importantly, what kind of madman would paint someone else's walls with blood? This is inhuman.

Hearing a noise behind me, I abruptly turn around. I recognize the sound instantly – it's the front door slamming shut.

– Mom, is that you?

Shoes tap on the wooden floor of the hallway, but this time, I don't recognize the sound of the footsteps. My brothers and mother don't walk like that.

A young man appears, stopping right at the entrance to the living room, where I'm standing.

What is he doing in my house? Was it him who did this?

As if he heard my thoughts, a chilling smile stretches across his face, increasing my confusion but especially the anxiety that has been growing since I came home.

– Don't come any closer, I order him.

Ignoring what I just said, he steps toward me and crouches down to my level. His face is so close to mine that I scoot back on the floor to put some distance between us, my hands slipping on the blood-stained floor. I only manage to move a few inches before my back hits the wall.

– W-who are you? I ask in a trembling voice.

– Me? My dear, I'm...

His voice is deep and dark. He analyzes me for a moment, still crouched in the same spot, then slowly moves forward in small steps, erasing the distance I had created. Gently, he raises his hand, keeping his eyes on mine, and takes a lock of my black hair between his fingers. He brings it to his face, to his nose, inhaling deeply. Shocked by his behavior, I remain frozen and silent the entire time. Finally, he stands up to observe me better, looking me up and down with that narcissistic smile he hasn't let go of since he saw me.

– Where is my family? Was it you who did... all this? I stammer, disoriented by what he just did.

– No. Stand up and follow me, he commands in a harsh tone as he turns and starts walking without waiting.

– Why should I listen to you? And more importantly, why should I follow a stranger?

He stops, only turning his head slightly, and replies in a strict tone, his sinister smile disappearing from his lips.

It seems he wasn't expecting me to answer him.

– If you want to survive, you don't have a choice but to follow me.

If it wasn't him, then who wrecked my house? And where are my brothers and my mother?

– How can I be sure you're not the one responsible for all this? I ask.

He fully turns around and looks me straight in the eyes, as if to emphasize that what he's about to say is the absolute truth.

– Simply because I was behind you when you walked in, he says without hesitation.

He followed me. I wonder now... was it him, then, that strange presence I felt in the alley?

– So you followed me. That's even worse than wrecking a house, I declare. What do you want from me?

His face turns serious. He's not joking. I'm both stunned by his words and terrified. A pit of anxiety starts forming in my stomach, and I wonder why it didn't appear sooner.

– You're in danger if you stay here, so get up and follow me. Or would you rather meet the one who massacred birds to redecorate your house? he asks, glancing quickly at the floor and the wall behind me.

– In danger? I repeat.

What the hell is going on?

– Yes. Hurry before they come back.

– Who's coming back?

He sighs, exasperated by all my questions.

– The ones who did this.

Slowly, I get up, looking at the dead birds nearby, which convince me to believe his words.

– Fine, but wait, you want me to follow you... to my room? I ask, stopping at the foot of the stairs leading upstairs.

– You need to change, he says, lowering his gaze toward my chest.

Pervert.

– Hey, what's wrong with you?

Crossing my arms to cover myself, I realize they're stained with blood. Looking closer, I understand why he was looking in that direction. Oops, I judged him too quickly. Without realizing it, I wiped my hands on my clothes and practically mopped the floor with my backside.

I say no more, and he resumes climbing the stairs. He's so at ease and calm in my house that I begin to doubt my decision. I hesitate to trust him completely. Who wants to harm me? And where is my family?

At that last thought, I feel a pang in my heart.

– Do you know where my family is? I ask, swallowing the burning lump in my throat.

– I didn't find anyone but you. They must have escaped or... they were killed.

Killed. That word hits me like a bomb, exploding inside my heart. Just imagining it intensifies the pit in my stomach and creates a new one in my throat, keeping me silent and lost.

Once in my room, he rummages through the closet, pulling out a handful of clothes.

– Listen, now's not the time to think about that. The most important thing right now is you.

I lift my head, understanding his words. He's right. In either case, I can't do anything for now. I have to stay alive to find them. And besides, there are no bodies, so no proof they're dead.

– Catch this and change, he says.

He tosses me a black fabric, which I catch and unfold to see what he picked. It's a long black dress with thin straps.

– Are you going to stare at that dress forever? Put it on; we don't have time.

This dress isn't mine.

I look up at him, feeling awkward, then wait for him to realize he should turn around. He doesn't move, seemingly unaware.

– Can you... turn around? I ask, making a circling motion with my finger.

– Why should I?

A wicked smile spreads across his face, similar to the one he had when he held my lock of hair between his fingers.

– If you want me to follow you... just do it, I demand.

His eyebrows knit together deeply, and his jaw tightens. In an instant, his entire demeanor changes, and suddenly I find myself pinned against the wall, paralyzed with fear and his hand around my throat. His face is so close to mine that I can feel his warm breath on my cheeks. His intense gaze is cold and full of darkness, sending chills down my spine. I'm terrified, but I can't show it, or he'll use it against me.

– His grip on me is suffocating, and tears naturally well up in my eyes. He's hurting me. Placing my hands on his as he squeezes my throat too tightly, I drop the dress I was holding in my hands to the floor. I try to pry his hand away, but it's futile.

I can only look him in the eyes, searching for compassion to make him let go, but even as he sees the salty traces streaming silently down my cheeks, he doesn't relent. He stares deeply into my pupils in silence. Ceasing to struggle for a moment, I do the same and delve into his eyes. It's then that I notice he's restraining himself, trying to swallow his anger—or perhaps, the demand I had just made of him. My head is spinning.

– I... can't... breathe, I manage to whisper, barely audible, my lungs burning from the lack of oxygen.

He leans in closer to my ear and murmurs in a threatening voice:

– I give the orders, sweetheart. If you don't want to die by my hand, you'd better stop threatening me or giving me commands.

His dominance is overwhelming. I'm paralyzed and incapable of uttering another word, my voice trapped beneath his hand. Once he's certain I've understood him, he finally lets go of my throat, and I collapse immediately to the floor as though it was him keeping me upright all along. I struggle to catch my breath. Massaging my neck, I cough as my bronchi wheeze with every inhale.

– This is the first and the last time. Is that clear? he continues, looking down at me.

I nod in agreement, hoping this will put an end to this terrifying situation, resigning myself to obeying him out of fear of what worse he might do. He abruptly turns away, leaving me on the cold floor, my face wet and red.

With trembling hands, I force myself to change quickly and regain my composure, wiping away my tears with the backs of my hands.

Finally, he turns back to me after granting me this small moment of privacy, gazing at me in the little black dress he had chosen. Circling me, he stops and runs his finger slowly up my spine, exposed by the dress.

I feel uncomfortable and regret believing him so foolishly. I still wonder how I could have followed a stranger so blindly.

– It suits you beautifully.

If he's expecting a thank you, he'll have to strangle me until I'm dead.

He rummages in one of the pockets of his black pants. When he pulls his hand out, an object reflects the light of the bulb above us. A knife. More specifically, a kind of dagger—a sharp blade with a hilt adorned by a black serpent with golden eyes.

Once again, I've thought too quickly. I can only imagine that he's going to use it on me, making me gasp, unconsciously holding my breath in fear.

– Breathe. I'm not going to kill you, he says with a smile. – Well, not yet anyway.

– What?

I take a step back.

– I'm kidding. Relax, he adds, still smiling.

Only after hearing those words do I realize I've been holding my breath and start breathing normally again. Strangely, hearing his smile reassures me slightly.

His emotions change too quickly; I need to be careful with what I say, or I might not survive this.

I don't take my eyes off him as he clears space around us, still holding the dagger.

After he's moved everything away—which, on closer inspection, isn't even mine—he stands before me.

– Are you ready?

– Ready for...

Before I can finish my sentence, he crushes the blade into his palm, then pulls it out swiftly, letting his blood drip onto the floor. My face reflects a mix of confusion and fear.

I cover my mouth with a hand to suppress any sound, watching as he crouches, using the droplets of blood to draw a large number eight on the floor beneath us.

As he stands, he suddenly grabs my arm, pulling me violently toward him and holding me in his arms.

– Let me go! What are you doing? I scream.

I squirm with all my strength, hoping to escape his grip, but it's useless. Exhausted by my struggle, I go limp, my arms pinned to my sides, pressed against him against my will, waiting to see what he'll do next. Then, a whisper reaches my ear:

– Stay calm. I'm only going to... make you suffer a lot.

My eyes widen as adrenaline surges, fueling me to push him away with great force, finally breaking free of his grip.

As I prepare to run, I stop myself, looking at him speechlessly.

– What... are you... I stammer, unable to form the words.

My eyes remain wide with shock at what I'm witnessing, so stunned that I can no longer express myself properly.

When I finally manage to describe what my eyes are seeing, I feel a tingling that reminds me of a familiar sensation. Second by second, that same tingling rapidly transforms into excruciating pain.

– My... AHHH, I scream, doubled over, squeezing my eyes shut and clenching my teeth.

My skin, my muscles, my veins, and my bones seem to come alive, each fighting to speak. Their chaotic voices echo in my mind, while my mouth remains silent, hearing only my thoughts. My back hurts terribly—what has he done to me?

– It's extraordinary. Don't worry, it will pass quickly, he says, as if trying to soothe me.

– I... why am I...

When my body finally finishes transforming after a good minute of agony, I flutter my eyelids to clear my blurred vision. I realize I'm on my knees, balancing myself with my hands flat on the floor.

– An... he stammers.

His eyes are wide open too, staring at me, unable to form a sentence.

– What have you done to me? I whisper, exhausted by the ordeal.

I feel heavy. As I stand, I nearly lose my balance. Something pulls me backward, like wearing a backpack stuffed with heavy textbooks.

He says nothing. He stands before me, stunned, staring over my shoulder. I follow his gaze and glance behind me but see nothing.

– Answer me. And what are you staring at like that? I ask.

He snaps out of his stupor but continues to stare. His expression changes, as if trying to erase the shocked look he had a moment ago, as though he'd seen the dead rise.

– What have you been staring at this whole time?

– You.

That single word resonates with one of my heartbeats, giving me a strange sensation. My heart actually appreciates the words of a stranger who almost killed me by strangulation?

– Why did you look so troubled? Shouldn't it be me who's shocked? You have wings, by the way.

Why is he smiling all of a sudden?

Seeing his smile, I wonder if I've said something stupid.

– Did I... say something funny? I hesitate to ask.

– Look at yourself in the mirror; you'll understand, he advises me.

What?

I rush to the mirror in the dressing room, staring intently at my reflection, horrified by what I've become.

– I... I have wings... too.

I walk back into the room, staring at the floor as if my brain has shut down, refusing to accept this information.

In front of him, there's only silence, the time stretching as we stare at one another, motionless.

I have wings. I can't believe it. Beyond the fact that I have wings, I don't understand. Why was he so shocked to see me with them when he has them himself?

– Can I ask why you were so surprised to see them?

– They're... you don't see... you really don't know?

I examine the boy in front of me and his large, outstretched wings. A breeze from the balcony makes some feathers—black as a raven's—flutter. Each of his feathers is a delicate shadow, battered and torn, revealing deep scars, hinting at the horrors he must have endured.

They aren't the same color. His are so dark.

– You have the wings of a pure angel.

He moves closer to me, staring at the white feathers on my back, reaching out to touch them. Before his hand can graze them, a loud crash comes from the living room.

Our heads turn simultaneously toward the door, expecting someone behind it.

– They're here, he says.

So, he had told the truth—it wasn't him who destroyed my home.

With one shared look, we understand each other. Without thinking, he grabs my hand firmly and determinedly, pulling me toward the bedroom's glass door. His face shifts once more, filling my mind with fear and doubt again, and it's at that moment that he pushes me into the void.

I close my eyes, my throat tight, unable to make a sound as I brace for impact with the ground.

He said he'd kill me as a joke. As they say, every joke contains a grain of truth. I should have been more careful.