she had thought it rebellion. celebration of a life unshackled. freedom from the laws of divinity that had once bound the angel, body and soul. what had the fall been for, if not this?
on the eighth day, the angel collapsed.
it had not been long since her fall. her celebration amounted to little more than a trip to the kitchen. a fire lit, a meal cooked—herself, not by her sisters. they, meanwhile, looked on with worried eyes. she did not understand. why did they not celebrate with her?
on the eighth, she did not rise from bed. nor the ninth, nor the tenth. her mortal body ached. the charred stumps at her shoulder blades itched & sent nervous spasms all the way to the ends of her fingertips. she still did not understand.
on the eleventh, she crawled from bed. on the twelfth, she walked. on the fourteenth, her eldest sister came to her & took the angel's face in her hands. not today, she told her. and so, the angel rested—displeased. her muscles relaxed. her bones settled into their mortal shape.
even the scars on her back ceased itching for the day, even if they would come to return on the next. yet, even as she relaxed, she did not understand. yet, even as she did not understand, she relaxed.
on the fifteenth, she grew angry. if her sisters had known it would be this way, why had they not stopped her before? why had they looked on silently, with wary eyes? she did not understand.
on the twenty-first, eldest sister did not visit, but the angel remained in bed all the same.
she was more active now. the twentieth had been busy—she'd even left the house. but on the twenty-first, she rested. she chose to rest.
on the twenty-first, she began to understand.
NEVER/END