Grace woke in the morning to a pale watery light streaming through the bedroom window, sitting up she looked over to the chair that Azriel had sat in and panicked when she discovered it empty. It took her a second to hear the hissing noise in the other room.
Azriel watched as Grace walked around the empty apartment. He was unsure of what to do with himself, should he cross his arms? Would he look too severe? Should he lean against something? Maybe that’d look more casual. He was so nervous that his body felt entirely foreign to him.
She awoke at the hospital, bandaged and connected to various monitors and an IV. Looking around the room though, she couldn’t see him anywhere. Had he abandoned her again? Was he a figment of her imagination like they had claimed?
The screaming still echoed in her ears. Even days later Grace could still hear it. It’d wake her from sleep. The poor cleaner had almost had a heart attack.
Azriel caught an updraft and he soared for miles, he lost track of the landscape beneath him, didn’t care enough to take note of his direction or where he was. As the fresh autumn air ripped at him, he screamed into the wind. He bellowed and swore letting every ounce of his anger, his frustration empty out of his body and into the nothingness of the night sky.
Azriel’s scarred skin had always served as a constant reminder of the deaths he had taken, of the lives he had harvested and the pain he had endured as part of his punishment for what he had done to their kind. But two scars in particular kept catching his eye over the years that followed, one jagged vertical line on each of his wrists.