Don't Fear the Angel

She’s staring down at me. Or rather it is, I regret coming to the abandoned cemetery. Its stone eyes peer down in hatred, wings outstretched in warning; it’s a drastic difference from its angelic form. Yet it remains still. The moist dead leaves squelch under my rainboots, I attempt to withdraw from the momentous grave. But I slip, falling back, my jaw rattles, my skull making hard contact with the tombstone beneath. My heart pounds as I stare up with unease at the fallen angel. It approaches me. Simultaneously, its sharp scythe presses firmly against my throat. Death has come for me.