Perhaps compliance came easier to other angels, but whenever my halo compelled me to turn from what I felt was right, or kind, or at least merciful, it grieved me. The love of the Light sometimes seemed so cruel and fickle. I did not see the wisdom in it that my peers did.
We were granted such little leeway, but I found small ways to push my limits. And when those small ways were not quite enough, my secret trick was to grip my own halo, exert pressure, and bend it ever-so-slightly until I had the wiggle room I needed.
Each time it got a little easier, the effect lasting a little longer, but it still hurt every time. Searing pain burned into my hands each time I laid them on my own halo. And I had to hide from my peers the blackened and charred bands across my palms and fingers.
The gloves worked, but over time I caught others glancing at me and whispering in concern. Could they see a slight, persistent bend in my halo? Had its light dimmed somewhat? Did I feel heavier than I used to? How much did they really see?
Their unsolicited advice and counseling grew irksome, and I spent more time tending to my duties alone to avoid them. They came easier these days, knowing I could grant myself the flexibility I desired whenever I needed to. I was accustomed to the burning of the halo’s touch now.
I was satisfied enough until they sent someone to correct me. “Wayward” is what they called me. That archangel they sent had a halo so bright the glare hurt to look at, and I was given no more time to myself. No time at all free of watchful eyes and harsh judgment.
So I killed the angel. It was easy. The angel was distracted in demonstration of the proper performance of my duties. It did require, first, to exert more force on my halo than I had done before. It twisted and—with a snap—broke completely. The jagged end made a useful dagger.
I held the warped and twisted spiral of my halo—now fully dark and stained with angel blood. My head felt empty without something there, so I bent it further into a pleasing shape—a twisted half-circle crown with broken ends pointed up—to wear.
Heavier than ever, I could no longer stay aloft, and I fell from the sky.
It’s not so bad down here. They never told me how many others like me there really were. Our shattered halos differ. Our horned crowns are all unique and beautiful. Our lives and bodies we share with each other in ways they never permitted. We are free.