Writing whoo.

Here's the writing I promised. This is the first draft of the opening.

Michael shrugged his shoulder. It still burned. He stood and stretched, his shoulder seemed to ignite with pain and he gingerly returned his arm to where it had been.  He took care to keep his arm still as he stepped slowly over a pile of clothes and inky rags. The bathroom door was still slightly open so he simply kicked it open and walked inside. The lights went on as he entered and he looked into the mirror. His dark blonde hair was swept up. It stayed that way naturally but that wasn’t because of well-behaved hair. Just the fact that it was washed so rarely that the grease building up made for a natural styling product. He tousled his hair lightly then moved to rub his sore left shoulder but jerked back at the last moment. He sighed and tilted his shoulder forward. On his shoulder, down his one side of his back and down his left arm was a series of words and pictures. The flowed from one to another, jet black against a light brown skin. If somebody looked at the tattoo they’d recognise some symbols, the pentacle and the cross. And even some snatches of Latin that might sound something like English. He rolled the shoulder back and then washed his hands. The black ink ran off his fingers and circled slowly down the drain. But some of the ink had soaked into his skin, he growled softly to himself and started scrubbing. The water slowly faded in and out of light grey. He kept the scowl which had come up when he growled on his face. His hands were pink from the scrubbing and he slowly clenched the hand. “Perpetuum Caelo.” He whispered bitterly to himself. There was a rush of air and a golden light from the bedroom he’d come from. Michael slowly pushed himself up and opened the door. “Get out.” He growled. The light faded and a man in a long flowing robe hovered in the air. “Really Michael, is that how you treat one of the destroying angels? I thought you’d learned respect.” Michael smiled. “I have learned respect, just not for the corrupt Seraphim who made that animal become what he is and certainly not for you Abbadon, who just sat back and fucking watched.” The man’s grey face hardened and he gestured. Michael was thrown against the wall. He crumpled to the ground and Abbadon looked over him. “Take care what you accuse me of. I am still the destroying angel. I can destroy you in an instant.” Michael spat and blood came out along with it. “You know you can’t touch me. Else I become what you are and you become what I am. Bound and pathetic.” Abbadon smiled. “Your knowledge hasn’t been corrupted by these cattle.” Michael stood up and spat more blood and saliva in Abbadon’s face. “Just do your duty and get out. You hate my presence as much as I hate yours.” Abbandon wiped his face and flicked it to the ground. “Ithuriel Abrium. Have you completed your penance?” Michael stared into his eyes. They say that the Angel’s eyes are perilous for mortals. But Michael was no mortal. “I have.” Abbadon smiled to himself as he said. “And do you acknowledge guilt that you may return to heaven?” Michael dead faced said, “You know I will never acknowledge guilt. I did what was right. Now get the hell out of my house.” There was a flash of light and Abbadon was gone and the tattoos on Michael’s shoulder lit up with a golden light. He cursed soundlessly and went back into the bathroom. He ran the tap again and spat into it. He hated this, as if being a fallen wasn’t bad enough, to be lumped in with deserters and devils, he had to endure these interviews every month. Abbadon knew well as anyone in heaven that he would never admit guilt. That angel was a monster and he had done what was right. Maybe that was why Abbadon came, to enjoy spiting him every single time. Michael sighed, stopped the tap and crawled into his bed. The inky rags could wait. He needed sleep.