Angels

Singe doesn’t remember how she got out of that explosion.

She doesn’t remember what people are telling her, what the people closest to her are telling her.

She doesn’t remember her arms being ripped to shreds.

She doesn’t remember the burns on her face and chest, the burns on her arms and legs from where she fell.

She doesn’t remember passing out from pain.

She doesn’t remember the dark form that passed over her, came back to pause, and then lift her off the gasoline-soaked ground.

As Singe looks around at the destruction from her spot on the back bumper of an ambulance, she can tell that no one is telling her anything either. Except for the EMT, one of the avian-kin, telling her to “chin up so I can bandage your neck. Thank goodness, you have short hair.”

No one tells her that a winged-form crashed into the building screaming a name that none of them had ever heard.

No one tells her that the building collapsed as they watched a form walk out, no wings, but with something in his arms.

No one tells her that Faustus carried her out of that building.

No one told her that he left.