Azrael
Spoiler alert: it did not, in fact, have to get better from there.
Logic claims the more I practice, the more my aim should improve. It’s what every fake cheerleader in our lives has spewed in their generic encouragement—put in the work and reap the rewards. Simple cause and effect.
But it didn’t get any better.
Somehow, against all odds, it gotworse.
Three days have passed since the Home Depot incident, and in that time, I’ve answered eighty-six calls.
Eighty-six.
And out of those eighty-six, I matched sixty-three.
There was the lovely couple on the train.
The confined space bought me time, but the rocking of the compartment triggered a wave of nausea that turnedmy almond skin a sickly green. It was an extraordinarily inconvenient occasion to realize Cherubs can be affected by motion sickness.
Stomach heaving, I rushed for the bathroom, tripped, and ended up falling on top of my targets.
Ever realized that your last fuck was given? It was in that moment for me, sprawled over their laps. I grabbed two arrows, waited until they looked at each other in bewilderment, then jabbed them both in the thigh. I skittered away, hunched over and giggling like a hysterical gremlin, and poofed home as soon as I was out of sight.
For the next ten minutes, I floundered on the floor with my cheek pushed against the solid ground, swearing I’d never again smile at the clickity-clack of a train.
After that, I met two lovely women in the mall, both questioning the sexuality of the other. Cautiously flirting over the rack of flannel shirts, it was a prime opportunity for me to try again.
And again, and again, and again.
“Look at the rips in this one!” the blonde said to the brunette, lifting a button-up shirt that was absolutely riddled with holes, thanks to yours truly. “Is that the fashion now?”
Who knew my arrows could affect clothing if I missed?
Certainly not me.
But as they shared a laugh, holding the shirt up and looking at the… goodlord, seven holes in the fabric, I suppose I can’t deny that truth.
At that point, only one logical option remained—I got on my hands and knees, and I crawled.
After a precautionary puff of my inhaler, I shuffled underneath the clothing display, looking too much like the overgrown tiny-winged baby once again, and poked both of them in the ankles.
It worked, so don’t judge me.
My days have been filled with finding new and exciting ways to stab people without garnering too much attention. Never in my existence as a celestial being did I imagine needing parkour to be a trick up my sleeve—yet, here I am, needing it daily. Ducking behind walls and leaping over fences.
And we’re not going totalkabout the number of times I’ve tripped... or the fence that almost pantsed me when my waistband snagged on a loose board.
Or the black eye I gave myself when I held the bow too close... you know what? We're just not going to talk about any of it.
I’m fucking exhausted.
It’s not mandatory that I answer every call. It would be impossible anyway, given that they often arrive in clusters rather than one at a time. The Cupid is allowed to sleep, of course.
Hell, if Seraphiel had rested more, I wouldn’t even be in this situation.
But, as usual, my brain is fighting against me, and I’m desperate not to fuck this up. I’ve only gotten a few hours of sporadic rest here and there. My bloodshot eyes burn, rimmed in angry red that screams ‘look what’s in my creepy van’ rather than ‘looking out for humanity’s future.’
If I was more confident, I might turn this into a new trend, but I’m too awkward to pull off artsy.
