Haunting Déjà vu
It was Friday the 13th. The fairy angel was walking aimlessly whole night. The night, which was under the magical spell of full moon, betrayed the fairy by taking away all her magical powers. Though she still had her wings intact but now they were just reduced to ornamental prominence. She could no longer fly in the wind. The wind danced to the howling of the wolves and snatched the red roses out of the mother tree’s hands. If fairies had blood in their bodies, she would have surely bled out completely from such treachery but her wings were red due to the color that roses shed to share sorrow with her. The bed of roses crushing under the angel’s feet led to a grave. She was so engrossed in her spirit’s hollowness that she didn’t know she was in a graveyard. On reaching close, the sight and the mind started to converse with one another. Her consciousness took the message that her senses were trying to convey; it was her worldly name on the grave. But the fact still remains, she was never buried.
Her lover killed her because she said no to him. Her dead body was thrown into an ocean. She became an angel; she herself took her own skull out of the ocean and buried it with her own hands. It was a unique feeling. Not many angels have been buried by themselves. But she soon forgot the feeling. The night took the revenge, the winds slapped her, the wolves laughed, the roses cried because she didn’t live by the moment. She did the same when she was a human and now when she got another chance, all she harvested was a dead skull. The skull that was so brittle that it could break into pieces at any moment in time.