Angel's Decree

chap 7

In the dead of night, Andrew made his way to Monica’s shabby neighborhood, seemingly at the end of morality. It was so still at this hour that the vermin in the sewers had long since retired – and Andrew was running on pure instinct.

Something was driving him forward and now, that same something brought him to an absolute stop. A man stood in his direct path, dressed in a white suit, his light brown hair made paler by the glow from the street lamp – except (Andrew noted in retrospect) there were no street lamps here.

The man regarded Andrew and then broke into a wide grin.

“Well,” he finally said, shoving his hands into his pockets, “Humanity really suits you.”

Andrew was still perplexed by the light radiating off the other man. “Who…”

“I’m Adam, and I don’t have much time, but let me just say this…” he paused, genuine concern etched into the ageless planes of his face. “…you’re going to do fine. All of you. Just… hang in there. And trust in Him.”

Andrew shook his head, slowly. “I don’t understand…”

“You will.” Adam nodded and approached and even though Andrew was afraid, he stood his ground.

There was a strange warmth coming off Adam as he got close and Andrew found that it made him well up with emotion. He turned his face away so Adam wouldn’t see his eyes filling up.

“Just remember, you serve a bigger purpose than this.” He waited, smirking, “So stop brooding so much. It’s not you.”

Andrew shut his eyes. He knew he must be going crazy, seeing apparitions here in the dark alley, and when he turned his head Adam was gone. He knew he must’ve dreamed it up.

He proceeded towards Monica’s building and took the stairs two at a time. The door was already ajar, but the sound coming from inside was the sound of death stealing life, quiet and futile. It was in that moment that he knew who Adam was. The walls felt dry and brittle as he felt his way in the dark towards the girl who lay motionless in a pool of her own blood. Her pale blond hair was even red with it as Andrew cradled her head.

“Please, God…” he began, but the rest wouldn’t come. He didn’t know what to say, and then a voice came out of nowhere, calm and low.

“It’s over now.” Adam said, “At least the worst of it is.”

“You’re death.” Andrew said in a shaking voice. “I’m sure of it now.”

“Yes. Well, it takes one to know one.” He grinned, but Andrew didn’t get the joke. Instead, he sobered his face. “Let her know that Jaime loved her. She would have wanted her to know that, I think.”

Andrew stared at Adam; the same thing that frightened him about death also calmed him. He was a myriad of contradictions, smug and funny but also loving and concerned. Andrew would have wanted someone like him for a brother or even a colleague, and he had that strange feeling again, like he knew him from a former life. Lately, though, it was best to just ignore that sensation because it was delusional thinking.

“How?” Andrew dragged a hand over the girl’s hair, smoothing it. She was still warm with the residual essence of life. It had not long left her body and Andrew wished he could will it back into her, somehow summon it back. This would undo Monica, he knew.

Adam wondered how to put it. He wondered how much Andrew knew about life, if he knew how ugly it could be, how unpleasant and how raw. The Father had made sure not to put the angels in direct harm, but then again, living itself could be very hard – especially when not having experienced it for very long, even with implanted false memories or nonexistent ones. It wasn’t written on an angel’s DNA about how to be human. For that matter, angels didn’t even have DNA.

“It was suicide.” Adam said, thinking that if he were a smoker, he’d have lit one up right now, anything to take the focus off Andrew’s sad, wide-open face. He was so much like a child that it disconcerted Adam. Especially in this state. All humans were children, in a sense. Now Andrew was so human right now that it killed Adam, hurt to look at him. He was used to seeing so much wise knowledge behind those hazel eyes, the knowledge of several hundred years at the right hand of God. Now, it was as if he were naked.

“Anyway, I have to go.” Adam cleared his throat and started for the door. He didn’t know if Andrew would take seeing him vanish into thin air. He had enough to deal with as it was. “You can call 911 or… whatever you would normally do in a situation like this.”

In that instant, Andrew remembered his EMT training, but of course, it was too late. Oblivious to Adam’s departure, Andrew laid the body flat and bent over her and began, in vain, CPR. His hands shook as he checked her pulse and came up with nothing time and time again until the first rays of sunlight shown through the window.

The soft sound behind him was startling at first, but he’d suspected she would come eventually.

“No.” the voice said when she got in full view. Monica, looking pale and disheveled must’ve walked here from across town or caught a bus. Right now, though, her eyes were almost empty except for her brows furrowed in pain. “No.” she said again before kneeling down, or rather sinking to the floor.

She moved Andrew absently out of the way and cradled Jaime in her arms. “She loved me.” Monica said in a quiet voice, “But I didn’t have time for her, couldn’t be bothered.”

Andrew found his voice. “She was troubled, Monica. It…w-wasn’t your fault.”

Her brown eyes focused down on the pale round face in her arms, the slits of blue staring up from behind motionless lids, frosted lashes, so pale they were almost invisible, that nose ring glinting in her right nostril. “I didn’t help her.”

“You couldn’t help her.” Andrew’s voice was stronger now. He was sitting up, facing her. “There was nothing you could do.”

“She needed my help.” Monica was shaking all over. “I didn’t do anything.”

“What could you do?” he reached for her and tried to steady her, but she flinched when he did it.

“I could have loved her, but… I was afraid…”

Andrew shook his head. “Monica…”

“She asked me about God.” Monica’s voice broke. “I could’ve done so much.”

“Monica…”

“I left her alone, Andrew.” Now, she laid Jaime’s cold head against the carpet and stood. “I left her alone.” She turned and ran from the apartment, Andrew calling after her.

When he saw that it was no use, that Monica wasn’t going to come back, he stood, in a numb trance and dialed 911. He told them who he was and how he had found Jaime’s body, and then he waited for them to come and take her. How she’d had the will power to slice her own throat was baffling, but under the influence of all the drugs in her system, anything was possible.

Andrew went about the rest of his day in a slump. He felt that he had lost Monica. He had no way to call her, and he hoped against hope that she would go to work so that he could meet her and talk to her, (although she often didn’t show up there even in the best of times) but when she didn’t this time, he felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Where could she have gone?

In the park, Monica walked the edge of the duck pond and stared into the dark water, fish swimming to the surface and kissing it, greeting her. It was all so blurry to her because her eyes were perpetually filled with water. Her head felt heavy on her shoulders and she just wanted to forget what she had seen, the lifeless body, the bloodstained hair, the slits of blue that had once been eyes. Jaime had told Monica what a lucky man Andrew was, but Monica had brushed it away like nothing. She couldn’t understand the mysteries of life, couldn’t help a friend and so she had lost her. Death had claimed her, and Andrew had been there, trying to deflect a brunt of the guilt away from Monica, but she wasn’t interested in being guiltless. She wanted to take the blame. After all, it was her guilt, and she deserved it.

The theatre was close, and Monica’s weary legs carried her there of their own free will. She was drawn there, to what she knew was comfort, to what she knew was salvation. She pictured, in her mind’s eyes, rejection, a slap in the face, pain. That was something she had never actually felt before, real pain, real hurt. The ache in her heart now was different from that. It was that inevitable thing that all humans felt at some point or another, the loss of a loved one, the loneliness of darkness, the fear of dying.

She banged on the door that read ‘Backstage’ and waited. If anyone answered at all, she’d be surprised, but she waited, still. Besides, what else did she have to do? Caryn was away someplace, reconciling with her family or perhaps gambling away the last remaining fragments of her belongings, Jaime was dead, and Andrew was…

Monica swallowed hard and rapped again on the door. No one would come; she was prepared for that. And in that event, she would continue walking, through the park, to the edge of town, to the edge of the world, if she had to – but then someone opened the door, poking out his balding head. The stage manager.

“Can I help you?”

“Y-yes… is… The Countess still here?”

The little man looked her up and down. “She might be. Who are you?”

“Please, I need to speak with her. I… I need her help.”

“That’s a laugh. You think I’m just going to open this door and let some stranger inside? The Countess is a huge star, and you’re…”

“Who is it, baby?” Tess’ voice rang out behind him and Monica felt her knees weaken at the familiar sound, more familiar than it should have been. Of course, it was a very real possibility that Tess would throw her out, not want to see her at all. Then, Monica thought she might curl into a ball and die. But Tess opened the door wide and looked at Monica with those warm dark eyes, a sassy smile on her lips.

“Monica?”

Monica nodded, her eyes overflowing, her whole body shaking. “Yes, it’s me.” And then she threw her arms around the older woman and cried in earnest and to her great surprise, Tess held on, rocking her gently and smoothing her hair with her heavy soothing hands.

The rest of the night went by like liquid, beneath a warm amber light. Monica found herself sipping coffee on a settee, listening to the sound of Tess singing an uplifting melody about the eye of a sparrow and braiding Monica’s hair into one long braid.

“My roommate died because I wanted to be loved.”

“That doesn’t sound right.” Tess said, seating herself next to Monica. “Maybe she died because she didn’t love herself.”

Monica stared down into the murky liquid steaming itself. “I was selfish. And now Andrew…”

“He seems like a fine young man.” Tess interrupted, smiling good-naturedly. “I like him – and I can tell you like him too.”

“Yes, but he doesn’t understand. I need to feel useful, and right now, I’m not useful.” Monica began to cry again. “Right now, I’m nothing.”

Tess reached out and placed a hand over Monica’s. “Now, baby, don’t say that. There ain’t no way you could be nothing because God don’t make nothing. Everything he makes is something.” She reached out and gently lifted Monica’s chin. “And you’re a special something. I can tell. I have an eye for this sort of thing – just like art work.”

Monica shook her head. “Maybe you’re wrong about me.” Her voice was a whisper. “Maybe I slipped through the wee cracks.”

Tess laughed and held onto one of those knowing smiles. It was such a wise look that Monica felt taken aback. “Oh, I know a thing or two about God, and he don’t let nothing slip through the cracks. He notices all of his creations.”

Monica wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “I don’t know much about Him.” She sniffled.

And Tess took this as her opening, a great opportunity to introduce Monica to the Alpha, the Omega. “Oh, well, let me just enlighten you, angel…”