Bernadette was an avid reader of teen fiction. She devoured stories if the paranormal; werewolves, witches and the ever-romantic vampires of Anne Rice, Kim Harrison and Stephanie Meyer. Her belief in God wavered, and she began have a special place on her dressing table for pentagram jewellery, incense burners and pewter charms. It was never enough. She made a wish, holding a crucifix so tight it cut into her palm. She wished for proof.
She didn't remember the razor blade. She wouldn't have known where to get one in the first place but there it was. A sign. Locking her bedroom door and putting on a Sisters of Mercy CD, she sliced her wrists halfway to the elbow, squeezing her eyes tight against the pain. Proof of the supernatural arrived within minutes.
Azrael, the Angel of Death.