//------------------------------//
// Of Angels 
// Story: Of Angels 
// by PaulAsaran 
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	There are days when I hate my name. You call me Angel, and I feel sick. It’s not you I’m angry at, though. It’s me. I stole the name, and it makes my skin crawl.

I’ve tried to be more deserving. You know as well as I do that it hasn’t been easy. As my age caught up to me, it just got worse; never satisfied, picky, grumping about every little thing. It must be hard for you.

Why is it the worst things always come from the best intentions? You probably should have called me ‘Devil.’ Yet no matter how much I deserved such a moniker, I know you never thought of me that way. I was always ‘Angel.’ Hearing you call me that with your ‘oh-so-sweet’ voice makes me want to rip my ears off. All these years I was trying to toughen you up, and you call me something I’m not.

What makes an angel? Is it wings and a halo? Is it good deeds, a gentle touch, beauty? I’ve thought on that long and hard. I wanted to be your angel. You deserved the best.

I don’t need to tell you that the average rabbit only lives three years in the wild. You’ve kept me going for five. Five years trying to figure out how to live up to my name. Trying and failing. It’s frustrating. I had so much I wanted to do, and strong legs to do it. Now I have to rely on the other animals to get around. I had a goal, a dream, and now…

I can’t describe to you how much I wanted to be your Angel. I had my good days. Well, more bad than good, really, but you always forgave me and treated me with the utmost kindness, kindness I sure as hay didn’t deserve. I’m a jerk most of the time. I’m well aware of it. Sometimes I have a reason for it, but lots of times I just… mess up.

I mess up a lot.

I’m not your Angel. You never seemed to understand that.

I’m going to tell you a little something that I’ve always wanted to tell you, and then maybe you’ll understand.

What is your very first memory? The first smell, sound, sight? The first feeling? Is it a happy memory? I hope so.

The first sound I can recall is a hunting cry. I think it must have been a hawk.

The first sensation was pain, the first smell of blood.

These things lasted in my mind. I don’t know why the bird didn’t eat me right there, or why it left me alone. I’ve always wondered about that. It’s one of those things that I always look back on. By all rights I should be in bunny heaven. Or perhaps Tartarus, come to think of it. If they would have me.

I was cold. It was late spring, and I was cold. The grass poked my face like little daggers. I couldn’t move. It hurt too much. I didn’t understand my situation just then, not really. The sun was burning on my back but my body still felt cold. I was scared and confused. Not that I knew anything back then.  I was only a kit, after all.

At some point I realized I was still bleeding. I could feel a sting in my chest every time I breathed. I don’t really know how bad it was.

There was movement. I looked out beyond the grass daggers, and I thought I could see buildings. Of course, they might have been mountains for all I knew. The important thing was the colors: blues, greens, purples, whites, yellows, oranges, all moving around in a blur. It took time for my vision to clear and recognize the blurs as creatures.

I didn’t know they were ponies. I didn’t know if they were nice or mean or if they ate little rabbits like me. All I knew was that they were there. Right there. I wanted to call to them, but I could make no sounds. Trying to move just led to more pain. Even so, I tried. I don’t think I got one step closer.

I called, shouted, screamed, but it was all silent. They walked right on by, not even noticing. I couldn’t have been ten steps away, but I might as well have been invisible.

It’s amazing, how much I remember of that time. Even more amazing is the clarity of thought.

I stopped calling for them. I just lay there, watching them walk by. I know I cried, but I couldn’t sob; every time I did, my chest burned. So I lay, and I cried, and I watched, and I hurt.

How cruel. That’s what ran through my mind: the world is cruel. There I was, a little baby rabbit barely grown into his fur, and already I lay at death’s door. 

Am I so insignificant? Am I that unimportant to them?

I’m here.

I’m alive.

Please, I’m still alive!

I wanted somepony to hold me. I amwas so scared. Why wouldn’t they just look at me?

Please, stop. Look at me. Acknowledge me. Talk to me, pet me, comfort me.

Why won’t they comfort me?

It’s so horribly lonesome in the cold. The grass kept poking me, little taunting daggers. The sun still digging into my back.

They’re so colorful. Like a cruel rainbow. How could they just ignore me?

The same phrases ran through my head again and again:

I exist.

Somepony, please, just acknowledge my existence. At least give me that.

I hated them. I hate them so much. Even at this age, their cold indifference chills me worse than the lingering talons of death. I wish they were in my place so I could ignore them!

They deserve it, the bastards. All of them. Colorful, smiling bastards.

The sun’s going down. Back then, I knew that when it disappeared, so would I. Being alone in a place so full of life is maddening. I grew just a little crazy. I guess it was the perfect time to look at myself.

Why was I even there? Why? Had I just appeared in that exact place in time, my sole purpose in life to die? Maybe some great bunny in heaven sent me there, just so I could come right back and tell him what the world looked and felt and smelled like. It wouldn’t have been a happy report.

To this day, I don’t know if I was dreaming or not. Perhaps you know. All I can say for sure is that the sun was just barely over the horizon… then it was gone. I thought I was dead. It was certainly colder, but the light didn’t fade. That was when I saw the most beautiful thing ever. It was yellow. It was pink. It glowed orange like a million suns. I heard a voice, and it ran through me like a cool stream in a parched desert.

I drank.

I drank.

I drank so much of that voice.

It lifted me away from the daggers and cradled me in the downy wings of heaven. I didn’t feel pain anymore, and the vicious light drifted away. The calm waters of the voice tickled my ears, and I rocked to the lullaby of Elysium.

You can’t know the pleasure, the cool calmness or the sweet nectar of an angel. I was swimming in the most pristine of waters, flying in the clearest air, sleeping on the softest bed. No more fear, no more hurt, no more anger. Just me, the darkness and a velvety voice.

You see, I’ve met an angel. I was saved by an angel. I was cared for, nursed back to life and given a home by an angel. I live my life every single day in debt to an angel. An angel so incredible, it even gave me its name.

This is why I hate my name, and love my name. I’ve tried so hard to live up to it, and now I know I never will. I will never be an angel. The things that I saw, those first terrible, precious memories were my answer all along. I know what an angel is, and it is not me.

But I will be your Angel. I understand it now. You gave me your title because you wanted me to be blessed. And I am. I am so blessed. I am far more blessed than any bunny, than any being on this earth deserves to be blessed. You’ve been so patient with me, accepting my many flaws despite me being intolerant of your friends.

Even though I took your name.

I will hold onto it. I have been Angel, and I will be Angel. It is the one great reminder of who I should be.

Your other name, the one that you go by in this world… well, I suppose it is fitting.

But to me, you will always be an angel who is too kind to an undeserving little whelp of a rabbit.

Someday, maybe I will earn this name.

Someday, I hope to make you proud that you gave it to me.

Someday.

—AB