I always thought that death would always be a more badass thing, especially mine. As I stare down the front of the truck I think back on my life, all my regrets, mistakes, problems. What if I hadn’t dived in time. A second too late and it would be her.

When guys tell their girlfriends that they would die for them they are always imagining some epic hero moment. Not that I wouldn’t die for her this way, I just want my death to be more remembered I guess.

What is wrong with me? I’m thinking about myself again. This is how I die, end of story. If there is one thing I am okay with in this moment it is who I am dying for. I wish I got a better look at her before shoving her aside. I guess this is finally it. The truck is inches away now.

I’m sorry Raven.

Everything fades away. The breeze on my skin is gone. All sound has dissipated. I can no longer see the truck. Ravens shouts have come to a halt. I'm cold.

“Get off the floor” I hear a voice speak to me. I try to scramble to my feet but end up landing on my knees.

What happened?

“Where is she?” I do not hesitate to shout out. My eyes adjust slightly and I see a man standing above me.

Are those wings? What the hell.

He is glowing. Literally glowing.

Blue light steals my vision. It burns yet I feel no pain. My eyes finally finish adjusting and I can see the man.

His golden, tangled, hair draped over his shoulders. His toned body practically towering above me. The ruffle of feathers grasps my attention more, his wings arched high above his shoulders.

“She? As in the one you died for?” he asks calmly, too calmly.

“Where the hell am I?” I am yelling now. I gain my balance. Is this heaven?

He looks at me, smirks, and speaks once more, “If only it were that simple.”

Did he just hear my thoughts? I didn’t say it out loud. This is all insane. Just a minute ago I was staring down a truck about to hit me.

I want to run, leave, get out of here, but I don't even know where I am.

When I look him - it - in the eye, it appears to have none. When I look away, it watches me. I don't want to say I'm scared - but I am. It has wings - too many, like eight, or sixteen, like they keep multiplying every time I look back. They aren't orange, but they aren't purple either, they're bright and on fire, but not warm. When I ask its' name, it replies not with sound but with presence, like it knows my thoughts, and I can't know its'.

Where am I?

In death.

In the afterlife?

Death is a state of being. It will soon become a place.

What?

Do not be scared, Michael.

How do you know my name?
The same way you know mine.

Gabriel?

Correct.