I’ve known since I could conceptualize the idea. It may seem strange to think that angels grow up just like life on Earth considering God created us, but didn’t God create humans, too? I think it helps the learning process. Giving a creature such divine power is a lot of responsibility, and it takes some trial and error to get things right.

For example, so far I’m only able to manifest minor miracles. Curing small wounds; bringing the faithless the truth; purging sins from the wicked; that kind of stuff. One day I’ll be a fully-fledged angel and receive my sword of righteousness to wage battle against Hell and its army. I’m just not strong enough for that yet.

There aren’t too many of us, but the ones who teach me know all of creation. They train me with stories of the garden and the fall. Of the flood and the fire. When I ask them about Heaven they describe it with such delight. I don’t understand why I can’t visit yet, but I try to be patient.

I wish I were more virtuous. I don’t think I’ve been made wrong, of course, since God created me and I cannot therefore be imperfect. But perhaps my trial is meant for me alone. I don’t speak of my doubts and fears to the others – they don’t share my anxiety.

I want to grow up faster. To become my destined self. To finally spread my wings and earn my halo. It may be painful, but I believe God has given me my impatience as a measure of my strength. I have decided to meet His challenge.

It’s difficult to reach, but with the right knife I can just scrape through the flesh on my back. Surely that will help my wings sprout – they must be stuck beneath my skin. I don’t feel any feathers, only bone and sinew, but I suppose they’ll grow in later.

The others look on with smiles at the progress I’ve made. I cannot wait to join them in the light. My pain is worth every moment I get closer to them.

Unfortunately there are demons who stop me. I try to fight them but I’m still too weak. I recite the will of the Lord but they don’t burn. They yell awful things at me, in the devil’s tongue, corrupted by lies. I struggle with every fiber of my being but my self-inflicted wounds sap me of my might.

The demons tie me up and feed me their evil. They say things like, “please stop hurting yourself,” and “who are you talking to?” The other angels, of course. Can’t they see them?

I know I’m an angel. Mama always said so.