"Cerulean Story" by Emily Grist

A woman sat at her window and gazed out dreamily at the snow. It had just begun to fall, the first snow of the winter season. It was cold outside her little shack, the icy crystals building around her welcome sign, burying her mailbox, and piling at her door. A little fire was alight in her fireplace, a cheery one, as one would think.

The young woman, alone in her little cottage in the forest, sat warm inside the hut on a rocking chair, letting it creak as she pushed herself up and down. The only sound was that of the creaking chair, cracking wood, and the snowflakes falling on the roof.

The snowfall thinned out just as quickly as it had sprung and buried everything in sight. The night was cold and would most likely remain so, until the sun would shine the next day. The woman wished that the snow would not melt away, because if it did so would her hope.

No one ever came to read the welcome mat in front of her door or put mail in her dainty mailbox. She lived alone and away from other people, isolating herself after so much pain and agony in the town far departed. She took what money she had and built a cottage, surviving off the meat she herself would hunt. But when winter came she secluded herself and stayed in her hut with the food she’d collected over the summer and fall, just like a huntsmen. She sometimes cried because there was no one there to comfort her, but otherwise she was content.

As the night became chilly and she could no longer stand to sit at the window, she rose and put another log on the fire; removed her shawl, and lain in her bed.

In the morning she was up when the sun was. She went back to her rocking chair almost mechanically and sat, swinging her legs to rock the chair.

The rest of the day approached and she rose only to eat something or sweep away a speck of dust in her clean, comfy, irregular home.

Then within a blink of an eye, night was there again, and through the snowstorm the lady saw a black figure, thinking it was a lost horse from one of the ranches.

She bundled herself up quickly and shoved the door open, walking out in the knee-deep snow.

--

Marques looked at all the clouds, hovering above with a scowl on his face. The bright sun passed right through his sheer body. He was glaring at all the beautiful angels about, playing their harps and trumpets, lolling around like they do in myths.

“They’re so stupid… they’ve no idea of the world… none a’tall…” he grumbled to himself, curled in a ball on a dark cloud.

He gazed off for many miles in the clear air; spotting a certain angel he had utter dislike for.

He himself did not know why he disliked this angel who knew naught of him. Maybe it was the fact that this angel was so old and yet so young looking and naïve. The angel was what they would call a guardian angel, only she did not guard. She was simply a trophy to be admired, and she thought highly of only herself.

She was on the fluffiest cloud that day had to offer, as usual, swinging her legs and laughing jovially as a male angel tried to swoon her with his harp. A flash of white flickered throughout the sky, calling him to duty, and the male angel waved faintly at her and left the angel alone.

Marques hated her. She was a cliché angel. Maybe he loathed her for the fact that she was so easy to predict, that nothing with her was ever new. He wondered this for a moment, and then moved easily toward her.

The angel, abandoned, looked melancholic, but when Marques approached she smiled and said in the sweetest of angel voices, “My name is Mytga.”

“Marques.”

She giggled, purely amused. Marques knew she would, he knew everything she would do.

“You’re a very handsome angel,” she said, giggling. Her naked body was just barely outlined although clear, as if a drawing, just as his was. He sat besides her, looking at the view, which was nothing but a blue oblivion. All angels except him loved the color blue.

He sat at perfect ease with her, as she touched him and giggled.

“Why won’t you say anything?” she teased. Her halo bobbed with her head, suspending above her, as if a spotlight. It was unusually bright and golden; white puffy clouds in the background acting as a stage, her being the only character.

“Why were you sitting there on that dark cloud, Marques?”

“Pondering.”

She looked at him curiously, tilting her head and batting her long eyelashes at him. She did not amuse him; she simply bored him, which was beginning to irritate Marques. He looked at her and placed a hand on her shoulder.

--

There was a traveler on the horse, nearly frozen to death. The young woman led the horse to the small barn in the back, which barely fit him.

“Oh, you’re a big brute, aren’t you? Stay here for the night; you’ll be warm enough.” She gave him some yellow hay, still crisp and appetizing from the previous summer.

She took the traveler, quite slowly, to her little cabin and sat him beside the fire.

“We have to get these clothes off you,” she said, unlacing his shoes. “Don’t worry, I have some more clothes. How tall are you?”

She received no answer and placed her hand inside his black coat, feeling his cold chest. His heart was still beating, so she had time.

“Just stay by the fire, I’ll be back in a moment.”

She left the room and returned with a hot rag and dry clothing.

She undressed him, and once she washed his body with the warm rag and dried him off, he started to tremble besides the fire, mumbling incoherent words. She still had not seen his face; his black cloak was something he would not allow her to remove.

“Maryette…” he mumbled suddenly.

The woman stopped and looked at him, unbuckling the cloak. She had only the dry shirt left to put on him. He would have to let her remove his cloak if he wanted to live.

“Pardon…?” She reached across him to remove his hood, which revealed his strong, handsome face. His dark eyes were bloodshot, probably from the cold and lack of sleep, and looking at her in an emotion the woman could not tell.

“Ooh… Gylrea…” she moaned, realizing who this mysterious stranger was.

He breathed in heavily and put his hand around her face, her hand reached up to his. She began to cry.

“Why, Gylrea? Why have you come back?”

“I couldn’t leave you behind Maryette… not with the end.”

“But why?”

“Because I hate you too much.”

Maryette gasped in and looked at him. His warm, sincere face suddenly cold and malicious. She dug her nails into his hand and pulled back, just about to get away when he reached out and grasped her long hair, pulling her onto her back.

“Why, Maryette? Why?” he yelled into her face, climbing on top of her, his long black hair shaking dirty dew drops from the snow onto her clean dress.

“Oh! I…” she sobbed, “I don’t know… you… you never really loved me!” She tried to pull away weakly.

“Why did you never ask?” he yelled louder.

“What?” she cried softly.

“Why…” he leaned down to her face; close enough that she could smell the rot on his breath, "didn't you ever ask why I never loved you?"

Maryette froze under him; they looked at each other in a silent moment of understanding.

"It never occurred to me," she said honestly. Gylrea raised his hand and smacked her across the face with the back of it, his veins bulging.

"Exactly, you pitiful woman! Exactly!"

Maryette turned her face away, her cheek swelling red in an instant. She sobbed into her arm; he let her go.

"I don't understand," she cried as she curled herself into a ball on her red rug.

"Of course you don't, I knew you wouldn't," he said.

"What do you want of me...?" she mumbled, her tears crawling down her face.

"I want you to die," he said. The sound of his voice made Maryette stop crying; the only sound was the crackling of the fire and the sound of snow falling outside. She looked at him through the corner of her eye, still lying on the floor, waiting.

His voice held no emotion, and he made no movement. He simply stared at her, his hair tangled from the snow, still dripping wet. The shadows cast upon him made him seem abnormal; eccentric, and horrifyingly freakish. He looked to be eons old, with battle scars and wrinkles in his face and on his chest. Shadows are deceiving, though Maryette swore it was not Gylrea, she could have sworn it was not her past lover.

He left her there, with that ghastly picture formed in her mind, which drove her to madness that night. He grabbed his cloak and flung it around his bare shoulders, hitting the rocking chair in the corner, which reminded her of the madness that he had known all along, and never cared to share with her. A lover that deceives leaves a person that learns. For Maryette, this did not apply, even as she carved his name into the near-frozen veins in her arm. She watched the red seep onto her pale skin from blue veins with tired fascination as she listened to the snow fall around her.

--

"Marques?" Mytga asked him. She fluttered her eyelashes at him again, tilting her head, and cupping her hands. Apparently she thought she was cute. He moved his hand up to her neck, wondering. Her skin was soft, as expected, and as he leaned in to kiss her, her kiss tasted like chocolate, she tasted like chocolate. A rare delicacy chocolate was among angels, and yet this angel who tasted that way was not a delicacy, instead she was a conspiracy.

The sun shone deeply, and he could feel her clear, fresh flesh become warm suddenly. She was not the most pure of angels, which he again had expected. He tugged at her neck more, forcing a deeper kiss upon her. She seemed to like it and leaned in closer, their haloes hitting each other with a slight clink. She wrapped her leg around his, trying to arouse him. He resisted, since he was predicting almost every move of hers.

Marques felt as if he needed a surprise, but knew that that would not be accomplished with Mytga. As they kissed, he reached up with his free hand and grasped her halo, a taboo among angels, his other hand grasping her neck and paralyzing her for a moment. She felt Marques grasp her halo and pulled back, out of the paralyzing effect, only to lunge forward again since an angel's halo can never part from them. She nearly screamed, but Marques held fast and spun her around, his hand covering her mouth and his legs sitting her still. Her back was against his naked chest and her head was painfully turned, because Mytga's halo was still in Marques' firm grasp. With her throat bent in such an uncomfortable position, one move could snap her neck with the sound of a gunshot. Marques did not want to do that. He felt he needed a sense of freedom from her and that would not be it.

Slowly he turned her halo so that her blue eyes could stare ahead. He did not want to look into those blue eyes of hers. He did not want to be in a world of blue any longer, and he felt that by hurting Mytga he could be rid of the burden and perhaps replace it with red.

Although with his own wants on the line, he did not want to simply hurt Mytga. He wanted to kill her.

He leaned in and whispered an arousing, "Shhh," into her ear, her tears wetting his hand and her sobs choking her.

"Don't speak," he said gently. She nodded, her eyes, he could feel, were glancing around. No one would come. If they did, they would catch him, but his job will be done.

He removed his hand from her mouth and she made no sound as he had instructed. She was too weak to rebel.

"Don't move."

He put his left hand on the back of her head, holding her glittering hair and the base of her neck still; calmly he lowered her halo. Her head twisted and she gritted her teeth in pain, groaning out some. He lowered it more until it was around her forehead, and that's when she broke free of it. He had wondered what would happen, and it fascinated him to be trying it. Once Mytga was free of her halo she fell back, alive and yet dead.

She fell limp in his grasp, heaving heavy breaths. He still held her head up straight; still lowered the halo until it was finally a necklace, lacy and elegant on her trim neck, still glowing merrily.

Marques listened to her grunts of disapproval, her body twitching in ominous surprise.

He pulled the halo back, his hand slipping down to her spine and pressing between her shoulder blades. She leaned back as far as she could while Marques pulled the halo, and when she finally couldn't her windpipe closed, her eyes began to roll, her tongue protruded from her mouth, and her pale skin turned blue. Marques pulled the halo back with a jolt, breaking her windpipe. He let her body fall gently onto the cloud and sink in, as a grave. He watched as her blue face disappeared beneath the clouds, and that's when he felt a deep understanding love for the color blue.