Jack lies on the floor of his bedroom, his olive skin covered only by a thin sheet across his waist. With his arms spread and more sheets cascading out beneath him, he looks like a beautiful angel, ready to fly home, or shot down by the heathen that cover the Earth. His eyes stare up at the ceiling, their brown irises diluted to an inhuman white.

Cathy sits with her head in the crooks of her arms a few feet away, curled up in a ball, unmoving but for the wrenching soundless sobs that jerk her head up in irregular beats.
At her feet lies a maroon-stained bat, splinters sticking out like a cruel mace.

Luc stares out the window at the clear blue sky with an expressionless face. His grey eyes reflect the motionless clouds above him. His blond hair is dyed a cherry red at the tips today.

And Jack lies on the floor of his bedroom, blood-stained wings behind him, a halo of dried blood around his head, ready for heaven. The last image of his still life.