• You have heard of me, have you not? Cast from Heaven for pomposity and presumptuousness by a loving God. Once held higher than all others as the favorite, turning to bite the hand of my own creation. That Book. So many people believe what it says for fear that they will join me if they don’t. They walk down the lines of lies in that book like so many sheep toward the butcher. They fear having nothing to believe in, so they believe in their God. And they believe in me.

    I am the negative where he is the positive. He is the light and I am the dark. He is the reward and I am the punishment. So this Book says and so the people believe. I am made out to be a monster, betraying my creator so that I may usurp Him. Well, children, riddle me this: why would I want to claim the throne if I were already getting the most attention, if I were the favorite? Why, if He is all-knowing, did God not stop me? If He is a loving God, why then did He not love equally? If He is a loving God, why then did He turn his back on His original children for His new toys?

    I have read this Book and I want to write my own. Pardon me for its briefness; eternity really is quite drab. There is so little to do here. Oh, and a warning to all of you good little sheep out there: your Shepherd won’t be too happy with you if you read this. It’s a sin, you know. Blasphemy, and all that.

    Forgive me, I stray. Now for my tale. I was in His good favor, that is true. But, to look at it fairly, it had never occurred to anyone that He had anything but good favor. Nor was I His favorite. He held you little sheep dearest to His heart.

    I made mistakes. I hadn’t sense enough to know when to bow out and cut my losses. I was young then, and I am young still. That being the case, I was stupid, for stupidity and youth are one and the same.

    Gabriel. Lucifer. We were close friends, but he was always slightly better than I, it seemed. Wittier, brighter, comelier. I was always slightly lower on the pedestal. He was much like the other angels, yet still a bit of an individual. He and the others were the classic angels, all of them with curly blonde locks and clear blue eyes. Perhaps the reason there were rumors of me having been the favorite was my individuality. The other angels did not find me amusing, however. Angels cannot hate, but were they able to, I believe I would have been hated a little in each of their secret hearts. Not that anyone had secret. Gabriel was a true friend to me, taking me under his wing, in both senses of the phrase.

    I believe that God used me as a transition between angel and human, reflecting back upon it now. While the others were flaxen-haired with cornflower-eyes, I had black hair and silver eyes. Gabriel once told me that he thought that with my creation came the creation of the color black. I stood out, to put it simply. Where the others were very golden-skinned and strapping, I was pale and thin. I was also much more curious than the other angels. That is what makes me so like you little sheep. That is the transition. Curiosity.

    Despite Gabriel being more adequate as an angel, he did not lord this over me. I don’t think it ever occurred to him that he could. He was a very angelic angel. As I have said, I was more like a human than the rest of the angels and that may be why He liked me so well. I had curiosity and a desire to learn. The others were content to be led like slightly more intelligent sheep. More like lackeys than anything else. That having been said, I think it only fitting that I mentioned that no others were cast out along with me. I was alone in my “betrayal” of my kind.

    I did get a bit too high and mighty; that is also true. I did not try to outwit or usurp your God, however. I asked Him a simple question, and that is all. He cast me out of my home, the only one I had ever known for asking a simple question. So, my lovelies, my sheep and lambs, never ask Him from whence He came, whom He was made in the likeness of. I let my curiosity get the better of me and asked a question, which I knew, was delicate at best. And still the curiosity burns within me, for He never answered me.

    If I recall correctly, the conversation went as follows:

    “Father, may I join you?”

    “Of course, Lucifer. You may always sit with me; no matter the purpose . . . They’re lovely, are they not? Of course, it will be many more years before I finish with them.” He was looking down at the humans he had just finished. You know of them as well. A man and a woman. Their story is a bit . . . exaggerated. I never met either of them. But I stray.

    “Yes, Father, but where are their wings?

    “Oh, they don‘t have wings. Not on the outside. Their wings are on the inside. My new children have something that no other being has, not even you or me, Lucifer. Would you like to know what it is?”

    “Yes, Father . . . “I had begun to grow curious then. What could He possibly be without? Did he not have everything that ever was and ever will be?

    “They have souls.”

    “What is a . . . soul?”

    “It is the part of a human that makes them human. It is the part of a human that is immortal”

    “Then they are not purely immortal?”

    “No, Lucifer. They will die, and upon their death, they will join us here for eternity.”

    “Death . . .? What is death, Father?”

    “It is something all humans must go through. It is suffering and weeping. It is pain and fear. It is human.”

    “But, Father, do you not love them?” I was shocked that he would create something knowing it would weep. I would have been more shocked had I known more than the vaguest meanings of pain, fear, and suffering. I had heard of them, and thought that I had experienced them a few times. I was soon to learn that I had no idea of their true natures.

    “Yes, and that is why I give them souls.”

    “But do you not love us, too, then, Father?” I should have stopped there, but I was confused.

    “Yes, I love you all. What would make you think otherwise?”

    “Why do we have no souls? Are we unequal?”

    “Because I made you as I saw fit. You haven’t a soul because I did not give you one. Nor do I have a soul. When they die, their souls will become angels. An angel cannot have a soul, so when they die, they will no longer have souls. Does this answer satisfy you?” He was still calm, but he was discontented.

    “I see now, Father. “ This was not exactly true. I did see the reasoning, but not the reason behind it. “And why do you have no soul?” I was still able to change how my story would be written then, but I kept at it. “Why do you not give yourself one?”

    “I cannot change who or what I am, Lucifer. Be gone for a while now.” He was on edge by now.

    “Why not? Why can you not change yourself? You are all-powerful! Do you not know that?” I was near hysterics.

    “Yes, I am, but I . . . Leave me. I do not have to explain this to you.”

    Suddenly it occurred to me that perhaps he wasn’t all-knowing. I panicked.

    “Where did you come from? By whose hand were you molded that you should not be able to change yourself? Do you not know?”

    Once the words were past my lips and into His ears, it was too late. His face became contorted with rage and what looked like doubt. Mine contorted with fear and regret. I think that the reason He never gave me an answer is that He had none to give. He knows not from where He comes.

    He raised his hands and struck me across the face, knocking me down. I tried to scramble away from Him, but He caught me, pulling me up by the wrist. His grip was like iron. I was too scared to notice that I had bruised in the shape of His fingers until later. He was breathing heavily by this time and I wondered just how badly I had erred.

    “Father, I-”

    He slapped me again, cutting me off and bloodying my lip. Angels can bleed, but seldom have occasion to do so. He pulled my face close to His. I could feel His breath on my face.

    “Do not question me Lucifer! Do you realize what you have done?”

    “Father, please!” I was weeping with fear and regret and the knowledge of my own careless stupidity.

    “Ask nothing of me. You are unworthy. You have betrayed me and all of your kind. How dare you question me? How dare you plead with me? What reason is there that I should allow you to ask anything of me?”

    “Father, I didn’t know! Please forgive me! I am sorry, so sorry! Father . . .” I could not think of anything to say. My mind was a black swirl of loss.

    “Do not call me your Father. I forsake you. You are no child of mine.”


    He kicked me in the ribs, winding me. I had been on my knees, weeping at His feel. I lay on my side, trying to breathe, dry-heaving. I was educated in hate that day, for I saw it in His eyes when He looked at me. Hate and anger and disgust. He kicked me again when I tried to stumble to my feet. I lay there cringing, trying to make myself as small as possible, fearing Him. Had any being ever feared Him before that moment? I do not believe so.

    “Rise. Do not disobey me.”

    I rose, afraid to look into His face, but fearing what would happen to me if I did not even more. I saw then that there was sadness in his eyes, though He was trying to hide it from me.

    “Lucifer, I loved you. I love you still, so I will let you continue to exist, but yours shall be a wretched existence and every day you will be reminded of your betrayal.”

    You will leave Heaven and go to Earth. You will have no name, for you are unworthy of the name I bestowed upon you. You may name yourself. You will find your own home. You will be alone for all of eternity, living in exile and shame.”

    He took my halo then. It turned black where His fingers touched it. A part of me died then. An angel’s halo is their connection to God and Heaven and all of the other angles. When He turned it black, he truly exiled me. When He turned it black, killed me, in a sense. His words meant nothing compared to what He had just done. When it was solely black, He returned it to me.

    He placed His hands on my shoulder and shoved back. I did not fall upon the ground, but instead went through it. The last I saw of Him before He turned His back on me and walked away, was a single tear making its way down His cheek. The ground closed over me, and I began to fall to Earth.

    I fell down and down, turning over. I had lost all sense of up and down; I had lost and forgotten everything. I had wings. All angels do. But that night, they were useless to me. They may as well have been stones. I would not have known where to go had I been of any use to myself. I had only ever known my home.

    I hit the ground. Both of my wings shattered, crumpling, turning bloody. I had never felt pain before. When He had hit me it a symbol of His anger, not an attempt to inflict pain. I’m sure that others bones must have broken and other wounds were dealt; I have scars, so I suppose I must have hurt more than just my broken wings. But I only remember the pain, the first pain I had ever felt, in my wings.

    I felt the blood covering my back, wondering when it would end, if it would end. I drew my knees up under my chin and rested my head on them. I was weeping, both from pain and for the loss of my life. The continuation of my life. I remembered that angels cannot die. I wondered if this was life on Earth: eternal pain. Blood ran into my eye, turning it red for a moment, until the tears turned it silver again.

    I raised my head from my knees and looked to the sky. There was no sign of my home. I lowered my head again and felt my hair fall over my shoulders, and masking my face. I wept. I was lost and alone. I didn’t know what to do or where to go. It occurred to me then that Earth is Hell for angels.

    I have no memory of how long I may have remained in that place. It may have been a minute or it may have been a century. My eyes were closed and I noticed no rain or sun.

    I stood up, forgetting my wings for a moment. They hung limp and twisted, pulling me down. I fell back down, being pulled by the pain in my back. I screamed until I slept. Angels are creatures of Heaven, even I am still of Heaven. I did not need food or drink. And thankfully, I did not need my wings to be splinted, or I would have the mangled bloody rags today that I had that night. They began to heal, but they still took a long while.

    I wandered the Earth and places not yet known to your kind, finally falling down into a deep pit. I could have climbed out had I wanted to, but I saw no point. I had no home, no name, and no will to live. Every day I was reminded that angels cannot die, and so I lay in that pit for eternities, sometimes feeling nostalgia for home and sometimes feeling the bitterness of what had happened to me. I sometimes thought of climbing out of my pit and finding out if my wings still worked, but was afraid to on the off-hand chance that they mightn’t.

    I really was a bit melodramatic, but all young ones are. I think that I was the angel equivalent of a human teenager. By now, I would be in my early twenties. Maybe twenty-one or two.

    After many, many life- and death-times, I heard someone outside, at the brim of my pit. I raised my head, catching a glimpse of silhouette against the moon before a cloud danced across it. I let my head fall back onto the stone floor, never minding the blood that began to flow from my temple. Never minding the fact that the silhouette had had wings. Maybe I hadn’t noticed it until I heard him speak.

    “Hello? Is anyone there?”

    I sat up, too quickly, falling back down. I knew that voice. Loved that voice. It was Gabriel, my friend, my old friend. Tears came to my eyes as I tilted my head back, looking toward the sound of his voice. I plunged out into the night, calling after him.
    “Is it you? Is it really you?” He seemed to distrust his eyes.

    “Who else were you expecting, Gabriel?” I was puzzled at his question and the look in his eyes.

    “But you look no different, apart from your wings . . .!” He looked worried.

    “They are hideous, then?”

    “No, but they are different than the angels’ wings. We have white wings.”

    “And what color are mine?” I disregarded the fact that he had not said “other” angels. I wasn’t really an angel any more. I was fallen. Instead, I turned my attention back to what he had said about my wings. I had never paid them any notice since they had stopped hurting.

    “They . . . Well, they’re the colors of your eyes. They’re silver with black edges.”

    “Hmm . . . I had not noticed . . . Why were you expecting me to look differently?”

    “He . . . He told us that you had changed.” There was a look in his eyes that haunted me then and haunts me still. He, for the first and last time in all of eternity, doubted Him.

    “Oh? And what did He say?”

    “He told us that you had grown the legs and cloven hooves of a goat and the horns of a ram and the forked tongue and fangs of a serpent. He said that you were turned into a monster for your betrayal. He forbade me from coming to you, but I finally got His leave . . . After all this time, all these years.”

    “Years? It has been millennia, Gabriel,”

    “It has been millennia for you because you are here, on Earth. Time is different for us now.”

    “Yes? And why do you come at night? Is it so the others won’t know that you are in cohorts with the fallen one?” I asked this bitterly, the tears coming again, but not falling.

    “No . . . does the sun not burn your flesh?” He looked deeply troubled by that time.

    “No Gabriel. The sun does not harm me at all. I can lie in it for hours at a time if I so choose.” I was growing uneasy. “I still have not chosen a name.” I said this to change the subject a bit.

    “Oh, He chose one for you already. You are now called Satan. . . You’re to follow me to your new dwellings.” He looked a bit relieved to have a subject of which he knew.

    “I will not answer to a name that is not my own.” I was angry at His having taken even the choosing of my name from me.

    “You can not defy Him!” His blue eyes were round with the shock of one who has heard and seen the impossible dancing in front of them.

    “Yes I can. What more can He do to me? I am already fallen and exiled. I have been turned into a monster by His lies. I will not answer to that name.”

    “ . . . Lies . . . You say that He lies . . . ?”

    “Well, I’m not a monster, am I?”

    “N-No, you still look the same, but you really must come with me, Satan.”

    “Please, Gabriel, remember the old times. Do not call me by that name. I know you; you will not defy Him. None would after what He has said happened to me. Call me by no name, if you must.” I was crying again.

    “I will try, Brother.”

    I did not think he would venture so far as to still claim me as his brother. It made me feel far bitterer than I had ever imagined anyone could be.

    I followed him into the night to my new home. To my new prison. To my new Hell.