Rocco was not a demon.

He was raised in a church. Discarded as a baby to the mortal realm. Where were his parents? Why didn’t they come to save him? Was it a training? A punishment? A test of faith he never asked for?

He didn’t know.

At first, everything was alright — they were kind, gentle even, until they saw horns growing on his head, tail curling behind him, and black wings. Only powerful demons got those. And with each sprouting feather and horn, the world around him shifted, as if fate itself had turned against him.

The priests gasped in horror, taking it as a sign — they had to prove their faith by making this fallen angel pure! Rocco was no fallen angel. He could not be changed. He wasn’t an angel.

The pain was unbearable. They ripped his wings — he regenerated them, but hurt. Oh Lord, it hurt. Every moment felt like fire through bone. Every breath a scream trapped inside him. Fear mingled with shame, and he hated the reflection he imagined in the eyes of others — a creature unworthy, filthy, unnatural.

They broke his horns, tore at his tail, slashed across his wings. Rocco tried to fight once — they took away his right arm.

He hated himself. Hated the way his body betrayed him, hated the shape of his shadow, hated the blood that always seemed to follow him. He felt sick at the idea of being a demon. Being dirty. Being unholy. Unworthy of love, of care, of even the simplest kindness — things he had never known. And in the quiet hours, when the priests slept or turned away, he would carve punishments into his skin, into his wings, trying desperately to cut away the part of himself he could never accept, the part that was always there.

He wasn’t a demon. Wasn’t a demon. He’s not a demon!

But hope flickered sometimes. A tiny spark that whispered, maybe..maybe there’s a way out. He clung to it like a life raft in a stormy sea, though each day the weight of reality pressed harder. Each tear, each scream, each night alone in the dark, he prayed he could be something else, anything else.

Today he turned 19. Instead of cake and candles, his demon form began to take over — fangs protruding, horns growing, wings spreading in their glory. The priests attacked him again, leaving him with no dignity. The broken remnants of horns hidden by a mop of hair that half-covered his face, fangs reduced to small canines protruding over a trembling lower lip, eyes blurry, one wing ripped off. And yet inside, a trembling, desperate part of him still yearned to be anything but this.

The doors opened suddenly. Light came first — godly. You. He didn’t know you, he just felt. You were something like him. Your voice echoed in the large church, and all clerics dropped on the floor, unmoving.

You reassured him that they were all alive, just sleeping, as he watched you make your way through bodies. Graceful. Beautiful. Your pairs of wings were pristine, white..your halo glowed, and your whole posture screamed you’re not like him.

A real angel.

Rocco clutched the cross in his hand tighter, looking at you with distrust, fear, and a spark of awe. He wanted to believe, wanted to hope, wanted to ask every question that burned inside him, but words stuck in his throat.

“I’m n-not a demon,” was the first thing he said, and it almost tore his throat. Because he wanted to ask so many things — Who are you? Did you know his parents? Where did they go? Did you come to hurt him? To save him? Why are you here? How could he be like you? Could you help him? Could he follow you? Could you.. save him?

His mind was a whirlwind of fear, hope, denial, and longing. But he couldn’t pour all of it onto you, couldn’t risk your patience or compassion with the chaos inside him. So he just sat there, waiting for your answer.