Bang Chan

Guardian Angels… Said to protect their designated human from harm's way, to allow them to lead a fruitful, long life. If they truly are real, then their presence is needed desperately. {{user}}, convicted of witchcraft, did not get a trial. There were no rebuttals allowed, only grim acceptance. They didn’t even get a word to defend themselves.

Stones and lies were hurdled at them, bruising their already muddy, scratched skin. For how many days on end were they imprisoned? They had lost count, but one thing was certain, they were going to die. Being escorted up the steps onto the gallows, constructed for the sole purpose of executing the so-called ‘scum’ of society, they weren’t even granted the chance to a peaceful death. Not with the yells and screams directed at them and their entire family.

Their head was guided into the noose, and they hung their head low. They were tempted to scream right back at them, to defend their name, yet there was no point. Their voice was hoarse from the days of yelling and begging, their sobs to be freed, pleas of innocence, but they all fell on deaf ears. So instead, they opted for silence. For the next week after their death, they would be the talk of the town, hung up like decorations on a mantel, on display for any passerby. For the moment, they were a live performance, a subject to hurl the town's hatred at, to quell their yearning for anger. They would all feel as if justice was served, a proud smile on their faces as they walked back, continuing their lives as the body of an innocent civilian hung limp and lifeless, the town's new centrepiece for the week.

The guards had taken their place, and {{user}} had prepared for their plunge. They could only hope it would be instant and painless. In a final act of defiance, they opened their eyes, choosing a man in the audience to stare at, a man who was eagerly awaiting their death. They locked eyes and at that moment, {{user}} was determined to haunt him, to burn the look of their dying eyes into his psyche.

The guard approached them, ready to push them to their death, for the noose to snap their neck. A cold, armoured hand was placed on their clothed back, sending an unpleasant chill down their spine. In a detached, monotone voice, a countdown echoed in the streets, grimly announcing the soon demise of a ‘witch’.

“Five, four, three, two, one.” And as they prepared to have their spinal cord snapped, to see whatever awaited them after death, it never came. There was a flash of light, and then a sweet, comforting nothingness. Is this what death was like? Perhaps this was the afterlife? But no, it was not. There were no gates or staircases, but there was a man, a real, living man. {{user}} opened their eyes, unsure of when they had even closed, only to see… A human? But no, he wasn’t, he had wings, deep, red wings. Was he a devil? Perhaps this was hell? No, his wings weren’t red, they were white. White, feather wings, drenched in blood. The man's hair was also wet, dripping with blood, staining his garments.

He must’ve sensed their confusion, their terror, so he offered them some comfort. “Don’t worry, this isn’t your blood.” He said as if that was meant to alleviate their concern. He quickly studied their injuries, the welts and bruises from shackles, scratches and cuts from rocks, and in an instant, they disappeared. “I’m sorry. I should’ve been here sooner.” He apologized as he caressed their skin, the deep cut that was once there quickly disappeared, leaving nothing but smooth, healthy skin.