Azrael

 

 

Azrael

 

 

 

 

Reddish dismayed eyes framed by wet eyelashes gazed at the lifeless street lights in silence,

 

"Hey," I said, glancing at the back of his head and back at the persistent fog breathing against the front glass, "are you hungry?" No response.

 

"No, is a no, Ms. Kindheart." The chief dryly said with crossed arms, "You might have found him for us, but scolding and grounding is for the police, not for freshly graduates claiming to be scientists in the field of understanding how a sixteen-year-old becomes a suicidal kidnapper."

 

"Jerry, please." I slightly wringed my eyebrows, "I am this close to finding out. This close! Weren't you the one who said you'd do anything to return the favor? This is the biggest gratitude you could offer me. Just two more days, please?"

 

If the rain does not cease soon, I imagined we would be using paddles inside the car instead of steering, "Kid, you should be at the very least thankful I got you two extra days before juvenile prison."

 

"Go to hell." He mumbled visibly, sounding more forced than choosing to be rude from the pain of hearing adult lecturing.

 

"Now that's not nice," I said maintaining the patient maturity,

 

"B***h." He mumbled louder.

 

A gloomy frown tried to steal my poised mood, "Alright, time out. You looked better when your mouth was shut." I raced to say the last sentence fearing he'd shoot me with another insult before I finished mine.

 

He was one hell of a child, with firm walls built around, and a special electric fence as a warning for nice people. I thought briefly swabbing my face with an exhale. To be honest, I was being nice, and seemingly he sensed that it was not in my nature.

 

The sound of the window cleaners shifting before me magnetized my eyes, and I could bear his bitter silence well enough.

 

However, if his alleged psychic vision was good news, that did not mean he would gladly lend me a hand (or in this case an eye) with the current mood in the air. Proper civil conversation should be installed at the least.

 

"So," my fingers tapped in sequel the borders of the steering wheel, "They've told me you've got a…special gift." Silence, which might mean two possible outcomes: 1) he was interested 2) he was giving me a chance to stop talking before his flow of insolence returned, "Is it true?" I said in an extra agreeable tone, "that you can draw the future sometimes?" His hand moved to open the bag on his thighs, pulling out an ordinary sketch notebook,

 

"What are you doing?"

 

"Wait," he said, his fingers fluently directing the strokes of his wooden pencil. "You can look now." He said almost politely.

 

I smiled in slight curiosity, almost crashing into the motorcycle in front of me after the glance I took at his raised piece of paper, managing to strike the brakes with my foot before Azrael gets a chance to rejoice at my lost soul. My discolored face had completely lost composure but I would not hide it in my hands, looking straight into his teary heated eyes, and back at the notebook where a woman resembling me was curled on the ground with an injured waist…Well, slightly more than injured since blood had soaked her clothes through the hole in her skin. My ever-positive mentality functioned, immediately translating his latest moves as sheer attempt to spill my limited -very limited- tolerance, nothing more.