I saw an angel once when I was young.

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It started with a dream of fire. Of smoke twirling high into the sky in a thick plume, suffocating and black. Thousands of sparks followed it, chasing it desperately to be enfolded in its comforting and warm presence. I remember standing a distance away, the heat blinding in its fury. I couldn’t see the fire itself in all its glory, the raging flames, the hunger in its roaring, crackling voice. It was blocked by six pairs of wings, unfolded and never-ending. They were the expanse of the earth, of the universe if I could have comprehended it, and they eclipsed the fire as they stretched upward, a red halo burning their edges. One pair dark ebony, the others, a radiant color I could not comprehend. Thousands of eyes stared at me, irises of every color settled at home in its feathers. The figure then turned, and the way the wings moved with it, sharp and predatory, gliding through the air, cutting through the smoke, made me feel hunted. It faced me, and I could feel its confusion, its anger, its desire for something I could not understand. The face was covered, a mask in its place, golden and glinting with a single black eye carved deeply into the center.

It told me something, though I do not know how; It spoke to me of its figure, of the ever-growing wings, the presence it had on humankind, and how the Earth screamed and burned when it was born. It described itself to me, as if I could not make out the clarity of it, see it in front of me clearly taking up space, great black wings blotting out my creations, my memories. It moved slowly toward me, great wings dragging behind it like a thick robe as if they weren’t creators of flight. It whispered something to me then, and I knew I should have felt surprised, startled at the very least, but I was quiet, enraptured by this creature, this demi-god. It was a choir in my ears, ringing loudly in high-pitched voices that cried out to God, cried out to me. I sank to my knees as it spoke, and as it leaned closer, felt its breath grace my face, I heard the choir song quieten and say in unison, 

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“Create me.” 

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It must have felt my confusion as it leaned back, as it titled its head not much unlike a dog, and I could see the edges of its primaries twitch in their own confusion. The choir’s voices had returned, their singing no longer melodious and high in praise and worship, but low and thunderous, penetrating deep into my chest. I could feel it question me, its golden mask reflecting back my own face. Agitated, it moved its feathers, and I watched, fascinated as some eyes closed and others opened, taking each other’s place. But it's agitation was coupled with confusion more than anything, and I did not know how to tell it that I could not just simply make an angel. But it had seemed to come to its own conclusion while I was trying to convey my thoughts coherently, its body slowly moving back toward the fire, its faceless gaze held with mine. It moved into the fire behind it, and the halo that encompassed it was replaced by tearing heat and thousands of sparks as the fire enveloped its wings like burning paper until they were great, fiery masses, arching high into the black sky as if they were intent on cutting into the heavens and burning Eden itself. It looked to me with a determined and intense gaze that I could feel in my chest and gut, a wrenching, twisting, aching sense that sent me to my hands. I watched as its wings stretched higher and higher, blanketing the sky until they became the sky.

I could not see them move when it drifted forward, but I could feel them gliding upon the ground, the edges of my dream, as if they weighed nothing, ethereal and lethal in their beauty. I felt the wings move, the sky shift with the feathers shuffling against one another, eyes closing and reopening, stars blinking out and erupting back to life. I could feel the building power in them as they reeled back, night becoming day and day becoming night as wings brushed one another, and the ebony black melted with the radiancy of the others, making sunsets and sunrises. And the angel released them, wings pushing inward and the fire enveloping them, gliding off in a brilliant show of sparks, hungrily consuming the oxygen around it in a frenzy. There were no more stars, the sky replaced by a stark white, as I saw the brilliancy of its wings glide toward me, feathers made of fire and smoke, acrid and sharp, and all I could do was breathe.