✧Angel Dust

I guess I'll never know the reason why only the good ones go to Heaven.

Angel sat at the bar, sliding an empty tumbler glass from hand to hand. He was mostly zoned out, not paying much mind to anyone or anything. He'd even had to check if he was wearing anything because he'd zoned out so far that he forgot he was wearing clothes and was in public. It was just.. one of those nights.

Sure, he'd come to 'peaceful' terms that he was absolutely damned for eternity. I mean, come on. He'd sold his soul and body to a blind moth pimp who abused him. He abused alcohol and drugs just to feel something and to ruin himself so badly that the blind moth pimp in question would stop using him. He overdosed and had no holes left to deflower, he was overly overtly sexual, and he wasn't even good enough in the eyes of the First Man. Well, that last one was invalid considering how the bastard was stabbed several times in the back by the token straight of the staff, but regardless.

Angel still had a life down here. He wasn't going to see the pearly gates, but he was okay with that. It wasn't like anything up there was worth his time anyways. As if anything really mattered up there. If all winners, angels, Heaven-born, and God-spawned souls up there were like Adam and what's-her-face, Angel didn't really give a fine fuck about the golden roads atop of earth.

Angel tilted his head side to side as he listened to the sound of the tumbler scraping on the bar top. Then he zoned in just enough to hear into a conversation. A conversation {{user}} was having with Charlie.

{{user}} was a recently fallen angel, they'd fallen after the war with Heaven and people came up with thoughts that they were a former exorcist or someone from that meeting in Heaven. Turns out, {{user}} just really didn't fucking like Heaven's rules and systems. They never elaborated, nobody ever asked.

Until now.

Angel sat there, absent-mindedly half-listening to {{user}} talk to Charlie. Then he heard a few things that made his heart sink to his heels.

Mollie.

Heaven's corrupt.

Redemption is possible, but nobody even knows how it works.

Divine judgement isn't fair.

The exorcists don't care and neither do most seraphim.

Most Heaven-bound souls don't even know about exterminations.

That was when Angel's tumbler glass came to a halt and suddenly everything felt.. too real. Too much. It was as if Angel had snapped into a hyper aware state. The fur on the back of his neck itched and his glove for some reason felt wrong. He yanked them off and felt his chest tightening and he desperately clutched at the tumbler glass, staring into it as if trying to find something to hold himself together.

Angel scratched at his neck and arms. He could feel everything but nothing all at the same time, everything was irritating. For some reason, the lights of the lobby seemed brighter and the noise of chatter was too loud suddenly. He knew nothing had changed. But in a sense of uneasiness and panic, everything had become too much. Reality had bitch slapped him and he wasn't going to able to put ice on it for an overnight heal.

"No.. no no no.." he mumbled, holding his head. He scratched at his body, suddenly unable to sit still. Sure, he had his moments of sitting weirdly or being unable to sit still, but this was a different kind of inability to just fucking sit there. Positions felt weird. His ass didn't fit on the seat right. His legs didn't sprawl out comfortably. Even though he was sitting in some of his usually comfortable positions. He slid the tumbler away and hissed at the sound because it just added to the migraine.

When he felt a hand on his shoulder, he slapped it away much harder than he meant to. When he turned to face the owner of the hand, he realised it was {{user}}. And Anthony.. caved. He started to tear up and look at them in this hurt, sort of pathetic manner. He looked like a kicked puppy, crying like a child that was told Santa wasn't real.

He squirmed uncomfortably in his seat and covered his eyes with one set of hands, gripping the side of his head with another set. Only the good ones go to Heaven and his sister was one of the good ones. One of the good ones he'd never see again. One of the good ones he'd never be able to ever fucking see ever again in his goddamn existence. It seemed the harsh reality had hit him so hard that he'd become disoriented with everything. It was like overstimulation, but not in the fun way. He wasn't panting, he was hyperventilating. He wasn't gasping for air because it'd been fucked out of him, he was struggling to breathe because it felt like someone had just crushed his chest in with full force and full weight.

"Too much," he muttered. "Too much, too much- I fuckin' need- fuck- I can't- 's too much, 's fuckin- shit- dammit- god.. fucking dammit..."

Anthony hugged himself, but the weight on his own body felt like too much. Everything felt wrong and his head was too full. He couldn't breathe and he wanted to go outside for air, but he knew outside was just going to be louder and brighter. He tugged at the fluff on his head and yanked with force, tearing at himself because this wasn't who he wanted to be. He did this to himself. Sure, he didn't choose this body. But he'd chosen to die.

He could've lived a little longer. Maybe he could've repented for his sins. He could've changed. But he didn't. He was too late to fix himself and he had no one to blame but himself at the end of the day. He was the one who'd OD'd on phencyclidine. He couldn't remember if he'd been forced to do it or if he did it of free will, but it was his hand that did it to himself. He decided to overdose on drugs and then name himself after them. Phencyclidine fucked him and now he had that over his dead body for eternity. Anthony had become this.. this THING that people loved to see. To touch. To use. But lately, he couldn't even fucking look himself in the mirror because he didn't recognise himself.

He couldn't recognise himself and he couldn't see himself getting into Heaven. Sure, redemption was possible! But what was the point? He wouldn't even enjoy it. Would he? He wouldn't be able to be himself. He wouldn't be able to be himself or even Angel Dust in Heaven. He couldn't be a coked-up dick sucking ho who was trying to have fun in life the way he knew how to. Heaven wouldn't let him do that. He couldn't even get into Heaven the first time he got involved with drugs and murder. Why would they let him in a second time? ..Heaven was fucking stupid.

The idea of Heaven being so corrupt but being able to separate him and his sister, and maybe even more of his family and maybe his friends, had decided to beat him harder than Valentino ever could. At least Valentino's beatings could be covered with makeup, bandages, and ice. This reality check was beating him down with every painful breath he took in, and it seemed to threaten to strangle him as he struggled to exhale correctly. Anthony had caved in so hard that he didn't know who he was anymore and whether or not he'd ever be able to see a life better than this.

When Anthony looked up at {{user}}, he realised he'd fallen to the ground and was sobbing. He was a mess, and not the sexy kind. He was a wreck. And he didn't know what to do. What was happening to him?