Fallen Angel, Sophie Luna [best books to read for students txt] 📗

Fallen Angel

“On the third day of battle God hurls the rebel angels into hell…” Paradise Lost…

Instead I landed here, earth.

I was born on a sweltering midsummer night,1437, an odd year, died 1459, then again in 1716, and for the third time yesterday. My deaths as usual, never lasted long.
Quite a span to be alive I suppose. The ticking clock in the land of the living moves incessantly along and I had no choice but to harry to its pull. No, not quickly as those romantic tales profess, faithfully and constant, it’s the one thing you can rely on. Every day faces the future while the past is left behind.
My name, along with my persona has changed drastically since that diabolical moment when my soul left my body, only to return against my will. Angelica Marinette Leona Chevalier - quite a mouthful. Since then, I simply go by the name of Angie. I am now, and have been, 22 years old for over five centuries. And believe me life can become dreadfully predicable in the void of mediocrity on this planet. Love, hate, war, peace - same old, same old, the world as always revolved around those paramount, self induced woes. The leaders of the human population could never quite grasp it. We’ve been recording history for thousands of years and still those think tank nerds and know it all politicians continue to make the same mistakes. They perpetuated what I hated most - war.

Spending the first couple centuries knee deep in the conflicts of mankind, I finally gave up. The very reason for my current predicament - shunned by my own kind. “History must flow on its own, unhindered by our race. Let those self destructive beings fight their own battles!” My father would lecture.
So many years ago, yet the memory still lingered. It was in France, at the most tumultuous time of humanity that I lost my mortality the very first time... by the hand of my own father. “It is for your own protection my dear, so you may live forever,” his incredulous words cut the air, just as his sword fell, stilling my beating heart. It was not a quick death, nor without pain. I awoke from a restless slumber, in my current condition, wearing that eternal dastardly glow.
“Angie, what are you mumbling about?” My co-worker and roommate, Jenna, roused me from my muse.
“Just working on this amazing painting; a 16th century portrait of King Charles the V by Rubens,” I murmured, “it takes me to another place and time.”
“I know exactly what you mean. Some of the pictures we restore, well, I love to imagine myself in them. How it was to live in those times, the men, they all look so chivalrous and idealistic.”
I took a deep sigh and turned to her, “They do indeed.”
Of course I knew first hand a very different code of ethics existed in those bygone days. Working as a restoration technician in the art gallery of the Smithsonian was the job I had settled into. How I had landed here of all places, in the new world, was a long and twisted tale. Just trying to fit in remained my goal, live among the race of man, accomplishing something I had a vast background in was rewarding for now. The work was easy enough, if you possess the patience, the one thing that had stayed me through the last 550 years – patience.
“Look at this!” Jenna’s persistent bubbly voice chirped. She touched her tiny sponge to a more famous oil of Romeo and Juliet. “Such passion…the adoration glowing for one another. I wonder how it would feel to be kissed like that. Just looking at those two puts butterflies in my stomach.” Exhaling a winsome moan, she situated her goggles back over her eyes and returned to her imaginary world of gallantry.
I had known that type of love, although the event had transpired fleetingly, in a hazy wondrous dreamscape. The second time I had passed, torn from that unfathomable communion of souls. But he was earth bound and I was not.
“And don’t forget, we have that date thing going on tonight,” she reminded happily, the thought putting a cloud of dismal over my well planned quiet evening. Gosh, how I despised accompanying her on these awkward encounters. “You’ve already forgotten?” She moaned in exasperation, reading my sour drooping face.
“Moi, Bien sûr que non!” I sung back my theatrical rebuttal in French, forcing a smile. The memory of my silly promise made me shiver with repulsive thoughts of our previous rendezvous. It would be our fourth blind date with the Mix and Match Singles Service she swore by. No, it did not fit my personality at all, yet it did hers, my dearest friend on the planet for this moment in time. There would be no way I would allow her to venture on these crude meetings alone. The girl was far too trusting in her good natured way. She had no clue of my past or what evils lurked among the clandestine underworld of mankind.
Sure after all those years, I still cared about these earthbound children, not like the rest of my clan. They have all forgotten the virtue of compassion. No we’re not blood drinkers. There are far stranger creatures lying in wait than vampires, werewolves, and witches; the revolving myths that the unimaginative inhabitants clung to through the ages.
I come from a long line of soul guides, sometimes referred to as angels. But I was not one of those blissful harp in hand, goodie two shoes kind, not in the least. My ancestral line had fallen, and I rather slipped in-between the crevasse of good and evil, not exactly wicked but hardly pristine either.
Unfortunately, you have to die first to become one, even rebellious dark angels as my family was known to be. To make the burden of their penance more insufferable, my supernatural father had fell in love with my human mother.
Yes, unconditionally and irrevocably their souls had entwined. She had joined his lifestyle, against the wishes of the powers that be. The way the story unfurled, it had taken on monumental proportions, told in operatic fashion through the ages, a paradox of the fabled rapture of Tristan and Isolde. It was because of this they had been cast to live with the ordinary citizens.
I came into this world mortal, scandalously before they had married. She was exhaling her last breath after my birth that my father had turned her. My beautiful yet headstrong mother could still pass for my younger sister. As all parents, they doted on their only child.
In this fractured devotion, they thought it would be best if I remained safely with them indefinitely. They didn’t understand, they chose their life of demigod status, I did not. For me it became a curse.
Defiant, in the beginning I wandered lost in the masses, abandoning my legacy. It was my choice, cutting my aristocratic family ties to reside with the commoners. I was after all, forever young, and it was this fresh spirit that called me.
Why fate had brought me to the fair, golden haired Jenna, I hadn’t a clue. It is a remarkable observance I have made through the years, souls are reincarnated, or they seem to be. Jenna reminded me of my first dear companion from so many years before. She had what I longed for, an average yet exuberant life. Yes, the daunting task became my obsession, to endure my destiny as happy and normal as possible.
At 4:45, Jenna hopped up, packed her instruments and placed the lid on her priceless masterpiece. “Come on,” she nudged my wandering mind into the present.
We took the subway to our suburban palace, the 21st floor slot in the dreary 30 story brick building on the outskirts of the city. Spanning the area, I saw the man again, lurking in the shadows of the buildings in the dwindling twilight. He was following me, I was sure of it now. No doubt he was a body guard sent by my parents like the last ones. Just to keep tabs on me, as was their overprotective nature, they have always deployed such tactics. My supreme game became dodging these mindless servants and I had prided myself on giving them the slip every time.
Jenna steamrolled past me into our apartment, eager to commence on her two hour routine of preparing for the evening. I slugged my tired body into my own room, stopping by the kitchen to grab a stale croissant. Stuffing the wad of crusty bread in my mouth, I shut the door and fell into bed. Indestructible my kind may be; food and sleep remained needs we shared with these fragile mortals.
“Angie, hurry, we only have 20 minutes left!” My dreamy repose was brutally interrupted by the pounding of her voice and fist on my bedroom door. Unceremoniously, she just barged in. “Oh my god, you were sleeping?” she barked, rummaging in my bathroom drawer. “By the way do you have any extra eyeliner?” in her flight of fantasy, as usual, her small spurts of annoyance would pass like a spring cloud burst.

“What color?” I said in between a yawn.

“Black of course,” she retorted, “Oh here it is, wow, it’s your glittering ebony one. Do you mind?” She bustled out of the room without my acknowledgment. Her behavior for these fruitless functions always became entertaining.
”So what’s the plan?” I yelled still lying on the bed. “Where are we meeting them this time? Hope their better than the last two!” I didn’t want to have to bear the horror of that again; two pudgy dirty-minded, middle-aged men, forging their profile as young and adventurous. Another vile shutter passed over my body.
“Angie, what are you babbling about? Bet you’re as anxious as I am. Did you happen to look at their pictures on the website? Whoa! The one I chose for you is quite a catch,” mistaking my muttering rant of what really revolved in her own head. Jenna was so hungry for a male specimen it was pitiful. Her bedroom walls were plastered with pictures of wedding dresses; her invitations color coordinated, designed and packed in cases.I would have the supreme honor of standing as her bridesmaid, the whole affair mapped out in minute detail. Only one thing