The light of truth. Angel is Mastro’s secret weapon. This is her talent. She is his avenging angel of truth, burning away everything tainted and spoiled.
Closing my eyes doesn’t help. Screaming doesn’t help. Crying doesn’t help. The world around me is gone. The war is gone. The street is gone. Gran is gone. Mastro is gone. There’s no one who can help me. There’s no one who can hear me. I’m alone, caught in a blinding, all-consuming light, with Angle at the center of it. And although I’m not even sure if this is real, the pain is real enough—not so much in my body as in my mind. It feels like it’s being ripped into tiny shreds.
Slowly, deliberately, and with excruciating precision, every detail of my life is examined. Every minuscule lie, every irrelevant untruth, is projected into my mind. Every moment I wasn’t true to myself. Every instant I did things because others wanted me to, out of fear or insecurity. And all the times I did the exact opposite of what others wanted, purely out of anger, frustration, or stubbornness.
All the times I lied and cheated. All the times I didn’t tell my father that I loved him. All the times I tried to convince myself that I didn’t miss my mother. All the times I pretended to hate Gnat. All the times I told myself I didn’t feel devastated when my long-time friend abandoned me. Every time I tried to forget my cursed fire-talent.
Literally every little detail of my life that isn’t 100% pure is being isolated, and set apart to be burned away. It’s torture. The pain is unbearable. I’ve lied too much, repressed too much…
All the painful and shameful scenes from my life are projected in my mind, in 4K vibrant 3D and Dolby surround—starting with my birth. An immense sense of loss spreads through me.
The first time I ran away from home—only because I wanted to frighten my father—and didn’t get farther than the hedge, where I hid, stubborn and sad, waiting for someone to come looking for me and when nobody did, returning home, only to find that no one had even missed me yet.
Other moments, moments I don’t even remember: as a toddler, a suckling, a baby. Lying on my mother’s chest right after I was born, searching for her eyes, thinking only, food, food, food. No! A baby can’t be impure, can it? If so, then what in God's name is pure?
The idea of losing all those moments stirs up a very deep survival instinct. Not my mind but my soul begins to fight back. Even though I’ve cursed my life countless times, I don’t want to lose it—not now, not like this. Despite the risk of damaging my eyes beyond repair by exposing them to the blinding light, I force them open. And when I do, I’m completely taken by surprise. There’s no light. None at all. It only exists in my head.
Angel sits on her knees under an overcast sky in the midst of a ravaged city, her eyes closed, looking utterly destroyed. Her face is a death mask. Mastro stands next to her, gazing down with cold, mercyless eyes. I know it’s only a matter of seconds before my first memories will be amputated—burned away by that sweet, delicate, next-door girl, cursed with this unimaginably cruel talent. One last time, I try to catch her eye, but she doesn’t look up. This must be the end. There’s nothing more I can do. This is it.
I feel the black whirlpool of destruction opening up beneath me when the last remnant of resilience tries to claw its way free, inch by inch, like a small animal struggling to wriggle out from beneath a stone. One last desperate attempt. I must, I shall, I must, I shall, I must—and then... the destroyed street and all its ravaged remnants begin to shake and tremble. Suddenly, we are somewhere else. Not another street or suburb, but an entirely different city, in a completely different century. Top hats, ridiculously high collars, parasols, horse drawn carriages, and a forest of chimneys belching out enormous clouds of black smoke. London? Paris? Late 19th century?
Mastro looks shocked, but before he can react, the air starts to vibrate, and everything changes again. A horde of antelopes leaps over us, missing our heads by mere inches. Mastro looks thoroughly shaken now. He spins around—only to see an enormous sabre-toothed tiger launching itself from a rock above him in a fatal attack. Its mouth is wide open, front paws stretched out, claws as large as butcher knives. But before it reaches him, we are somewhere else... again.
Massive blocks of stone, deep brown, half-naked sweating bodies. A pyramid under construction, only half-finished. Mastro is screaming something at Angel, but I don’t register what. My mind feels like a pinball machine of time and space, with only one goal: avoiding annihilation at the hands of a small, disintegrating girl kneeling right in front of me. I can’t control it. Flying cars, a futuristic skyline beneath an enormous transparent sphere. Outside, only black, charred soil and rocks stretch as far as the eye can see.
But no matter where—or when—my subconscious transports us, it doesn’t help. I can’t seem to stop Angel, and by now, I’m completely exhausted. One more time, the sky around us quivers, and then... we’re back. Back on the black school square. Gran, still in her incarnation as a fourteen-year-old girl, stands next to me. Mastro looks up, recognizes where we are, and starts to laugh triumphantly. This must be it. We are lost. My mind will be burned empty.
And then... I see Jack. My nine-year-old father, wearing his short trousers and slouch socks. Stupefied, he stares at the four figures who materialized out of thin air before him. For a moment, he looks from me to Angel, and then—without really understanding what’s happening—he leaps into action. It must be pure instinct.
He’s young and quick. He dodges Mastro’s long, grabbing arms and crashes into Angel, who lets out a high-pitched squeak. The pain in my head immediately lessens, and the burning lights dim. Jack and Angel roll across the black tiles of the square. Angel doesn’t resist at all. It almost seems as if she wants to be stopped.
Mastro lets out an angry cry—the kind you’d hear from a crazed professor in an old movie—and strides toward the two wrestling kids with long, determined steps. I see him raise his arm. In his hand, the ancient knife Scroptz had thrown at me earlier this night. I’m too late... again.
Mastro is about to thrust the knife into the small boy’s back as he sits on top of Angel. I scream, but Mastro doesn’t react. I scream again, and again, and again. Nothing happens. Still, I keep screaming. It’s the only thing I can do. I scream and scream. I scream until my lungs are burning, until my throat is shredded, until all I can produce is a faint, raspy gurgle. And then, finally, the air around us trembles—and we are gone.