I
Flowers bloom in the trees,
While I walk alone. It was was hatred that brought me into that world, and love that spat me out of it. A man dressed in black boards a crowded subway car. Ignoring those around him, he flips absently through a leather bound notebook. In all corners of the crowded space, people chatter into cellphones, listen to MP3 players, read newspapers and sleep, oblivious to their surroundings. The man in black grimaces, shifting away from a sweaty, suited accountant who bumps into him as the train accelerates. He takes hold of a chipped chrome bar to support himself, still scanning the pages of the notebook. The metal is cold against his palm.
I considered the people I took to be nothing but mindless souls - a curse upon my kind, the angels of death. What purpose could so infantile and lowly of beings serve in the grand scheme of existence? I thought that humanity serves no other reason than to amuse those that created them, and annoy the angels unlucky enough to be tasked with handling them - especially the angels of death. Stations come and go in rapid succession, and eventually the train stops at a nearly empty platform. The man steps out, weaving expertly through the crowd pressing in around him; someone drops a cup, and he kneels to wipe warm liquid from his pant leg and shoe, the denim becoming dark and heavy as it absorbs what must be coffee. He sighs and stands up, straightening the collar of his button down shirt as he does.
"Animals," he mutters to himself.
Stowing the leather notebook in his shoulder bag, the man takes the escalator up and out of the station. Following a side street, he walks past run down apartment buildings, corner stores and houses for some time before coming to a stop in front of an ill-repaired residence of the dire sort. He picks his way through the overgrown yard - which is filled with remnants of old cars and miscellaneous trash - walks softly up the rickety steps to the front door – which may once have been white - and pushes it open. Inside, through a small hallway, there is a dark room illuminated only by the flickering light of a TV set. An old woman sits in a stained brown recliner in front of the flashing screen; stuffing spills out from many rips and tears in the chair. The room is filled with junk - bookcases overflowing with books, coffee tables piled with magazines and trash, piles of clothing and old toys. Pictures of children, obviously taken over many years and ranging from newborns to adults, line the walls. A twinge of sympathy passes across the man's face, though his cold, black expression is quickly replaced. He considers the old woman with golden eyes.
When I made the mistake of taking the lives of humans for granted, I was punished, forced to live as one of them - to share their world which I hated so much. Sent here in hatred, I preformed my duties normally, helping those who are dying to pass on to the next world, where perhaps they may finally be useful, working in the Soul District. Too many liberties are taken on the accounts of a few human souls, I would think. Why not just create a force of souls simply to work for us? Why must we take the useless humans, who require so much to be content? The system was flawed, I thought. Eyes closed, the old woman smiles. She lays back in her chair and gives a soft sigh. "It is time?" she asks, expectantly.
"Yes," replies the man. "But I am early." He checks his wristwatch.
"No, I'm ready," she replies, leaning her head back. "Take me to my son."
"Your son?" asks the man. "How can you be ready? Do you know what awaits you in death?"
"I don't know what will happen when I die, but I've lived long enough," the woman sighs again. "I'm ready to see Jason again." The man looks puzzled. He walks across the room to stand behind the chair.
"You are not afraid then?"
The woman shakes her head, and opens her eyes to look up at the man. "Oh, you have beautiful eyes," she says with a smile. "What's your name?"
The man pauses, looking into the woman's blue eyes with his own glowing orbs, piercing into her very soul. Again a puzzled expression crosses his face, followed by a sense of respect. "Brettan," he says finally, kneeling beside the woman. "Why do you not fear me?"
The woman smiles again. "Because it is part of life that we must die."
The hint of a bitter smile touches his lips; a somber expression his eyes. In silence, the old woman passes away. Laying his hands upon her forehead, Brettan tenses in concentration and speaks in a low tone. A bright light fills the room, and the man smiles peacefully, opening his eyes to watch the woman's soul as she passes through the gate into the Soul District. She waves back at him. "Thank you," she says.
Brettan nods to her.
The gate closes, and the light dissipates.
Perhaps there is something more to humanity after all, some hope for them of which neither I, nor they were aware.* * *
"Thanks again!" Aiza says, hugging Samantha.
"Text me when you get settled in again," replies Sam, beaming at her friend. "We can go out and catch up. I want to hear all about Paris!"
"Alright," Aiza pipes with a grin. "It was amazing..."
Sam's phone buzzes. "Oh, I have to go," she says, reading a text message. "I'll see you later!" The two girls hug again. Sam hurries back to her car while Aiza walks slowly toward her apartment building, watching her excitable friend leave.
"Alone again," sighs Aiza, fishing for keys at the bottom of her bag, beside a half empty tin of cinnamon mints and battered books of sudoku and kakuro puzzles. Shoving a copper tone key into the lock, she twists the handle and opens the door. "Home sweet home," the girl says aloud, inhaling familiar aromas, the smell of Annabelle, her cat, being most prominent.
Aiza enters the apartment, opting not to switch on the lights, but opening the blinds instead and navigating via the harsh light of a streetlamp which streams into the room. Rummaging through a drawer in the kitchen for a few moments, she pulls out the receipt forms she will need to retrieve Annabelle from the Pet Holiday Suit animal hotel and hospital on the following day. "Pretty friggin' ridiculous," Aiza says to herself as she reads again the total amount for Annabelle's lengthy stay. "What we do for those we love..."
Setting down the papers, the girl walks over and slumps onto a lumpy couch in the apartment's joint living room-kitchen. She flips the television on to ward off her depression. On the screen, a soon forgotten cartoon plays out, the characters quirky voices droning in the background as Aiza distractedly stares out through her slitted blinds. Thin streams of light trace themselves across her face, illuminating a single tear trailing its way down her cheek.
"Those we love," she repeats. "Alone..."
Aiza closes her eyes, falling into a fitful sleep. 11:11 PM, 04/21 reads a digital clock on the side table near her head.
* * *
Stretching and yawning, Brettan walks out through the hospital's main entrance. A nurse behind the front desk nods at him, a sense of familiarity between them stemming from his recent influx of activity at the facility. He'd told the desk staff that he was a priest, coming at patients' request, and regardless of how thin the lie sounded, angel's hold a certain persuasive power over the mortal races. No one had yet questioned his sudden frequent visits.
“This body becomes tired so quickly,” Brettan mutters to himself, strolling hands-in-pockets down the dark, deserted avenues of the late night city. He had, in fact, grown accustomed to living as a mortal rather quickly, a task that had in the past driven other angels absolutely insane. Many of them died of starvation, forgetting to sleep and eat as they went about their duties with fervor, trying to regain their honor and earn passage back to the Inner District, where angels reside.
“I'd heard that you were down here,” a smug voice from behind him sniggers. “At first I didn't believe it, but here you are. In all your human glory.” The mortal angel turns to face his antagonist.
“Hello, Draegen,” Brettan says to the ashen winged figure before him. The well muscled man wears black armor with golden inlays, and bears a sword at his side.
“Aw, don't be so happy to see me!” Draegen replies, covering the thirty feet between them in an instant to stand beside Brettan as if he'd teleported. “I just wanted to come down and tell you that Tsuki has been asking about you. Should I tell her that her brother is confined to the human world?”
Brettan sneers. “Do as you please, Draegen, but leave me be.” He turns to leave, striding purposefully away.
“Don't lie to me, trash. If you didn't care that she know, you wouldn't have been so secretive about leaving,” Draegen retorted, again appearing in front of Brettan. “I had to threaten one of Balma's aides to learn where you were.”
“What do you want from me?” asks Brettan, stopping short.
It is Draegen's turn to sneer. “Nothing,” he says with a mock hurt tone. “Why? Is it so bad of me to come all the way down here to see you? And don't worry, I won't tell Tsuki just yet, but I hope you'll remember my thoughtfulness someday.” The angel of death cackles evilly. “Because if you don't, I might just forget my promise and let slip that one of the Inner District's most honored Death Angels is stuck in a mortal body here, on Earth.”
Barring his teeth, Brettan shoves past the winged man. “Whatever,” he mutters. As he walks down the ill-lit sidewalk, the only thing that breaks the silence of the night is Draegen's maniacal laughter.
So it's blackmail then. I wonder what he will want of me, when the time comes. Turning into a subway station, he feeds a few bills into the ticketing machine and takes the slip is spits out for him. Change clanks down into the delivery receptacle, but the death angel ignores it.
Dear Tsuki, I hope she won't think less of me for this. I couldn't care less about the rest of the Inner District, but if your eyes were to look upon me with shame, I'm not sure my heart could take it. Sitting in one of the train car's uncomfortable and decidedly dirty booths, Brettan again finds himself watching the people around him intently. An old lady strokes the hair of a sleeping child, whose head lays in her lap; a tattooed couple stand, leaning against each other and whispering secretively; a homeless man sleeps soundly at the other end of the car, leaning against the window.
No, she would never look upon me so. As an older sister, she has always had only my best interests in mind. I'm ashamed for dishonoring her like this.
I am an angel of death, nothing more.* * *
“Light,” Aiza thinks, staring up at the ceiling. She'd been dreaming of something to do with a bright light, though could not now recall what it was. Turning her head to the side, she sees the TV – left on all night. A morning talk show is playing, and the hosts banter annoyingly. The tired girl sighs, sits up, stretches and flips the heated machine off. Shuffling into the kitchen, she spots an old photograph of her and a dark haired boy, both smiling. They were at an amusement park, and a large, twisting roller coaster is visible in the background. Aiza had been scared to go on the thrill ride, but he'd managed to convince her it would be fun. She'd never forget that day.
Forgoing any breakfast, Aiza showers and changes, eager to pick up Annabelle, her cat, from the pet hotel. Although the feline could be a demonic fiend at times, she was the single girl's only true companion in the world – the only one who was always there and understood her.
Stuffing her wallet and keys into the overflowing shoulder bag she carried, and checking her phone before slipping it into her jean's pocket, Aiza rushes out of her apartment. “s**t,” she curses, having recalled the hotel's 10:00 AM checkout policy. Hurrying to the subway station, she barely manages to squeeze onto the correct train, pressed against the door with little room to breath and no regard for personal space or dignity. Luckily, her detestation is only a few stops away, and her cramped confinement is fairly short lived.
Grateful for her escape from the overpopulated cabin, Aiza bolts through the station, pushing past other train-goers in a bustle. Rounding a corner near the stairway, she collides with a man dressed all in black, who catches her when she nearly stumbles face first into a trash bin.
“Excuse me!” Aiza exclaims apologetically. “I'm in a rush, and I need to get my cat, or I'll be charged a fee, and I wasn't looking -”
“It's fine,” the man says, slightly disgruntled.
“Oh, okay,” she replies, taken slightly aback. “Well, I'm really sorry!”
“Sure, go get your cat,” the man nods in the direction Aiza had been running. His golden eyes sparkle in the station's dim lighting; a strand of his dark hair falls across his forehead, deliciously unheeded.
“I, uh... Right!” Aiza stammers. She bows quickly and takes off again, questing to save herself the late pick-up charge instituted by the annoyingly voracious animal hotel. “I was such an idiot back there,” she thinks to herself, remembering the stranger's face; his eyes.
- - -
Let me know what you think! I'm pretty happy with the beginning of this.
