An Angel With Broken Wings

Short Story (Untitled)

Untitled Short Story

"Wherefore should the heathen say, Where is now their God? ... Their idols are silver and gold, : the work of men�s hands. : They have mouths, but they speak not : eyes they have but cannot see..."

I fear then, that my eyes are similarly blinded--much like those of the heathen�s idol--blinded by the years they�ve seen and the absolute hypocrisy of the human soul.

It has been years since I professed an inkling of, shall we say gullibility, with the Church and it�s teachings. I was twenty-four then, living in the poorest, dirtiest alcove that Manchester nourished . . . a cesspool of starving, diseased, and downtrodden individuals that had nothing, that offered nothing, that were nothing.

It seemed that my entire life was encompassed by this poverty--every sight, every situation, every breath...

From the transient lost in sugar sweet dreams of the past--of happier times when life wasn�t lived in a bottle; to the woman, poor in love, who slowly wasted away because she never caught her gentleman�s eye. Where you could see the tears she wept in the drawn lines of her face.

They were scarred too late into life to ever show the only human strength I�ve esteemed--resilience.

Both, broken by circumstance.

And I, as a lost and misguided artist, looked towards the only thing that I knew was complimentary . . . faith. It offered me nothing but the comfort of mind, and being so disillusioned, I thought belief alone would save me...

Many people had taken the route that I had chosen; where you let your world shatter then pray to God to pick up the pieces.

I was a fool then because, I too was a part of the drove of ignorant believers... never questioning, never doubting--just following.

It took a lifetime for me to realize that God wasted no time on ignorance--but focused on those who rose above mediocre intelligence. It was a wager where He�d let humanity evolve and watched with a prudent eye as to those who transcended thoughtless faith.

However, my zealous mistake was not entirely in vain because soon after turning to the Church, I was abandoned by them.

I later found a life so blissfully sweet in the arms of a deadly angel...

Chapter 1: To Be Alive . . .

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It hurt too much to move, so I laid wherever I was--inhaling the scent of the streets; the filth and everything impure. My head spun in the darkness behind closed eyelids. I knew that I was alive--I could feel the dull throbbing at the base of my neck, which although painful, wasn�t unwelcome...

"David... get up."

I recognized the voice as none other than Father Leonard... My eyes blinked several times before they opened. It was as if by opening my eyes, I uncovered a floodgate to the absolute pain that lingered on. Without second thought, my hand reached to cradle the wound.

I didn�t see the blood until later.

I stared, in utter disbelief.

"Why should I? I�m no longer your pawn, Father... Go find someone else to deceive..." I could feel the edge that my words held, and judging by the horror that spread onto his soft, gentle eyes, he had too.

I wished at that exact moment that I could have ripped them from his head--those eyes, which had on too many occasions, lulled me into his Catholic contrivance.

"Enough then, I wash my hands of you David--there�s nothing left of the piety I helped you mature--nothing left but the ungrateful wretch in front of me that will undoubtedly go back to his former life of lechery and sin." He turned, his black robe catching slightly in the chill November wind, and walked out of my life.

"Wait.... " My voice was barely a whisper as I stumbled to my feet. "... Please... don�t leave me... alone..." The ground beneath me felt like quicksand--soft, unstable...

"... not again..."

My vision blurred, as if I were merely dreaming... hazy, unreal--like the quality of a faint memory. Each picture in black and gray and white...Unrefined, emotionless�

I fell onto the coarse, cold concrete before passing into an unusual unconsciousness....

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What passed inside my head whilst unconscious can only be described in the most vague and cryptic of metaphors--like asking a person what they see as they lay dying...

And perhaps, as I lay in that inert alleyway, a part of me was indeed passing away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ They weren�t supposed to be there... faces of people from the past... my mother, father, sister... Father Leonard... they were all there... all looking at me--trying to speak but their wordless mouths made no sound.
Their expressions floated in a misty blackness that I only can call oblivion--there were no other words to describe it.
They were terrified, I could see it in their eyes, and somehow, I knew they were all frightened of me.
There was another vision then.
I saw my mother, huddled in a darkened corner. She was crying, her tear streaked face bruised. Father was standing above her, his fist raised. She managed one final scream before he lowered it...
I stared into the water, looking at the reflection... My dark hair fell at lips length---shrouding the deep blue eyes that held such calm.
In that image, I saw my father....
There was one final vision in that bizarre time--where I knew I was lost in a place that existed in the confines of my own mind:

The Betrayal.

(The memory still lives and it hurts to write of it now many years later...)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Everything I had given Father Leonard; my faith, my love, and finally--most importantly--my trust... all of it was abandoned in an instant, faster than he could whisper "those soothing Catholic words" ...
He turned away from me that day, the book falling unknowingly from his belt onto the cold cobblestone floor. It was a plainly decorated book... a thin piece of leather made the binding--tanned to a burnt brown--with simple string holding the pages in place.
My hands reached for it but something stopped me from returning it...
I noticed my name, scrawled on the parchment paper, in the elegant handwriting of a man who spent much time learning the art of penmanship. (I keep the book still, I never had the courage to tell Father Leonard that I knew �his secret�)
Included is the page directly from his journal.
It read:

13 October . . .
David, the misguided artist. . . The very image of his alcoholic, abusive father; anyone can see the resemblance--except for himself, I suppose.
He seems to think that I can help him---a real bright gentleman. Intelligent and gullible--what an absolutely unworldly youth.
Everyone knows that there is no help for him.
Even the Father Himself can offer no help to this poor soul.
He abandoned his family after his father, drunk and angry, came home one evening and realized that his son was nearly a man. Tried to prove his mettle...
I found David behind the Church, bruised to the point of being unrecognizable.
I won�t forget the words he whispered, his eyes filled with raw hatred and unshed tears, ". . .said I was man, to act like one now . . . that I was a man . . . to prove myself . . ."
His trembling hands were blood stained, as I�m sure his soul matched.
I took him in . . . what else could I do?
From a pious point-of-view, this is where I say that David will burn eternally for his sins because only God may judge who does and does not deserve life on this earth. . .
But to see someone so young and have so much potential break down so fast . . . it reaches a place beyond piety.
So yes, forgive me Father for lying to him---for leading him to believe that his soul has been purged from that awful transgression when I know it has not . . .
. . . Forgive me . . .

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That was the first of many entries involving me or my life; the truth of them lay only in Father Leonard�s eyes---his own small inhibited world---a world I had strived to be a part of because there were no others that wanted, needed, or desired me.

Perhaps it was that intense isolation that drove me to the edge . . . that point where everything you�d ever known was destroyed, gone . . . God knows I was alone, so very alone. It was then that I decided to take my final step out of that loneliness. . .

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I was never a coward, not even as I planned the self-inflicted homicide of the person named David. Ironic that my own name promised such greatness only to have me lead a life of such shame and bitterness. I slew no giants nor became king of anything other than self-defeat.

My method was simple--a single glass of red wine laced with strychnine and valerian--my holy grail that held a blessedly uncomplicated recipe for a sleep from which I would never awaken.

I cradled the cool glass, evenly and calculated; tempered far smoother, my hands were then, than at any other point previous and thereafter. Strangely, I�d given myself in quiet repose, to the beauty of self-destruction. . .

With no hesitation, I lifted it to my lips, inhaling the sweet scent of the wine.

Another fragrance lingered in the back of my throat--earthy, bitter--from the valerian, no doubt. The inevitability hung in the air; a prelude to the �nocturne de morte� , my song of death.

And it�s always the artist who wants to die poetically--hoping that immortality claims them with their lush metaphors of dark angels with wings as soft as silk, leading them through the hallowed walls of eternity.

With one last deep breath, I emptied the glass, and I waited and waited and waited for my metaphor until the valerian sent my mind spinning into the dark . . .

I hoped and prayed form death--but in that space of time where my angel was supposed to beckon, there was only a lush emptiness enfolding. I could feel the warm rush of blood crawl through my veins, the steady churn of my stomach, and somewhere far away, I heard a soft, slow rhythm--so far, I strained to hear it.

I focused on the steady cadence, lost in the dark, counting.

And I offered up a final prayer, my spirit seeking redemption, release. . .

. . . one . . .

"Holy Mary, Mother of God,"

. . . two . . .
. . . three . . .

. . . four. . .

"pray for my sins,"

. . . five . . .
. . . six . . .
. . . seven . . .

"now in the hour of my death,"

. . . eight . . .
. . . nine . . .
. . . ten . . .

"Amen."

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Chapter 2: She Arrives . . .

When I came to - - instead of dining with rich angels or joining the wicked in one of the many forms of hell - - I realized that I had eluded death. Cheated him. Again.

There was no being lifted by those with gentle voices and soft wings. No oblivion. No ferryman to pay.

Only her. . .
I felt her hands, very real, upon my skin.

She was so beautiful.
The surrender was simple.

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What did I always call myself, in the latter years of self-reflection- - an unfinished symphony? A dusty piano whose loving master had long since given up the art?

I get ahead of myself again. Perhaps in these long years that have passed, I�ve forgotten how much there was to tell. So many stories, so many memories.

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