Flying Downwards

The room was sterile-smelling, white, and practically empty, save the presence of a hospital bed enclosing a frail looking child. Emmanuel stepped in the door, let it swing close behind him, and pulled off his scrubs.
His wings burst out of their wrappings, showering the pale child in a cascade of white down.
"I bring a message from the Lord."
The child wasn't listening, or at least she wasn't moving. Her brown hair was strewn across her face, covering her eyes. Her tiny chest was heaving.
Emmanuel tried again.
"I bring a message from the Lord." He shook his wings again, but the child did not move.
He wondered vaguely if she was already dead. It was forbidden to touch living people, because upon realizing angels are made of skin and bones, the illusion of a vision is shattered.
But he was almost certain she was, considering her chest had stopped heaving.
He was in deep trouble anyway. He had failed to deliver the message to the child before she died, and it would really make no difference if he touched her hand, just to see.
His fingers closed around two of the girl's. Their surface was cool and clammy.
Well, he thought, she is most certainly dead.
It was quiet for another moment, and then she turned her head towards him, her hair jerking out of her eyes.
"Who are you?" she asked.
Emmanuel backed away quickly.
"I am no one. I am a vision. Go back to sleep."
He didn't know where to go. He was trapped. His wings were exposed, just as he shortly would be.
The window was open. Emmanuel took a running leap out it, the glass shattering painfully around his shoulders. He pulsed his wings, testing, and then gave them one powerful swoop, rising towards the heavens as fast as he could.
When he reached the gates, he was turned away.
You failed your task, God told him. Return to earth and spend time among your people until you comprehend life. Then return, and we shall see if we have a place for you.
And so Emmanuel fell.