We lived in a grand house. It was commodious and genuinely exquisite. We even had a massive lake out front. It was a glorious blue and peacock green. Shades of blue and green swirled together to make the most beautiful lake ever. My mum’s eyes were ocean blue. The pale curve of her slender neck and the way her wavy chocolate brown hair draped down her back. She was the most beautiful woman ever. Not like me. My mum was a kindhearted person just like my dad.

Mum had always been strict with me. Once she told me, I behaved “overindividualistically”. When I asked her what it meant she told me to “look it up”. It meant she thought I was ‘too independant’. She never thought that for my brother, now did she? He was a typical brother: an annoying brat. Still I loved him, the way I loved the rest of my family. This was my life. My perfect life.

Mum had a collection of angels, which had always awed me. She loved to collect statues of angels. She felt they bought an angelic presence into our house. The angel statues were celestial, superior and yet so very delicate. Mum was extremely fond of her collection. They were all exhibited in the back garden. The weird thing was that all the angels were weeping.

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I had researched weeping angels on the internet. A science fiction site said:

“The Weeping Angels look like stone statues of human women with wings. As the Angels became older, they wear away as a normal statue naturally would over many years. The Weeping Angels are faster than imaginable and are tremendously deadly. They hold the ability to transfer creatures back through time with a touch. This allowed them to consume the potential energy from the time the victims could have had alive in the future if the Angels had not transported the victim back in time.”

There was more rubbish about them having evil faces hidden under. I was in the garden right now. The angels didn’t seem evil. I blinked to remind myself that all of this wasn’t true. The angels had moved.


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