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"Hey, uhm... ma'am!" a little girl says, her bright eyes shining.

"What?" I ask. I glance around. Where's this girl's parents? Don't tell me she's gonna cry to me about how she can't find her mommy and daddy.

"Are you a angel?" she questions me. I suddenly feel taken back -- an angel? What part of me would look like a angel? My eyes are black. My hair is black. My skin is dark. Memories of slurred words and men past through my head.

"What do you mean?" I say, suddenly very tired.

"Mommy says that anyone who has those marked wrists are angels," she tells me.

"...Sorry, I'm not a angel," I reply. Nothing near a angel, a cruel voice in my mind tells me.

"Of course you are! Mommy said that angels hurt themselves because they don't like the way things are on Earth. She said that this world is destroying them, so they try to return to heaven. ...That they're too sensitive to the pain of themselves and others," the little girl says.

"You know... You have a very wise mommy," I reply, my eyes narrowing.

"Thank you! Mommy is a angel, and she already went home," she says, a small lonely smile on her face.