“I cannot die.”
The memory of the angel’s voice cut through the fog of remembrance with the force of what seemed like an entire lifetime she’d forgotten.
All her thoughts froze at the sight of her fingers after she had absently wiped her nose. She wiped her nose again to find the same red substance present on her fingertips. It couldn’t be blood, could it? Angelina frantically searched around, her eyes finally finding the dried spots of brown blood that dotted her pillow case and her night gown. She rushed to the bathroom, which was thankfully just through the shutter doors across from her bed. The light clicked on illuminating the pink marble walls and the mirror reflecting her haggard form. Angelina stared in shock at herself, at the stained cotton nightgown, at the little stream of blood that had mingled with the sweat on her chest most likely from the severe nosebleed she’d received while she was asleep. As she leaned forward over the cold sink to wash herself, she suddenly became aware of a dull pain in her chest. Her fingers softly gripped the night gown for fear of aggravating the unseen wound. Cautiously, Angeline pulled down the collar that stuck slightly with half-dried blood and cold sweat.
Angelina stared, her hands trembling, till she hurriedly took a white wash cloth and wiped her face and chest clean, the blood disappearing in little ropes down the drain. Her mother would be angry if she found out that she’d stained her paisley pillow covers. Underneath a rush of cold water, she washed them clean with soft soap and set them to dry in the wooden hamper inside the cabinet. Mom wouldn’t find them for awhile, and if she did, she’d just think they were dirty since they were in the hamper. For the nightgown, she’d tell her she’d gotten a bloody nose during the night. After all, it was sometimes hot and dry in her room at the odd hours of the morning. Angelina rubbed her chest drowsily, dismissing the wound as something she might have gotten from running into the French knob on the back door. Oftentimes, she’d hit herself randomly on the knob trying to squeeze out of the spring loaded door at the last second. The size and shape of the bruise hinted at something worse, but she ignored the fact so she could go back to sleep. There were three hours till she had to get up at 5 am and ride with her mom to school and those were three precious hours she could use to rest before the big exam on the last few cantos of the Inferno.
The last circle holds the sinners frozen farthest from God, with Satan trapped at its center, each of his mouths eternally devouring the three greatest sinners, Brutus, Cassius, and Judas... The last few thoughts of the exam faded into the grey shadows of her darkened room as the lights turned out.
* * *
“What’s wrong, Ang? You seem a bit paler than usual.” Her mother joked with a smile on her face, her eyes watching the familiar road that would carry them to Angelina’s school and to the garrison command office where she spent her 9-5’s. Angelina always seemed to carry that lethargic manner this early in the morning, that veil of sleepiness that made itself evident in crusty, drooping eyes and the half-asleep glossy glare she was so used to seeing plastered on her daughter’s face. Ang was most definitely a night person. But this morning was different. There was a strange white pallor to her already pale skin, as if she were more lethargic than usual. Rather than assume the worst, she chocked it up to the pressure of the exams she knew her daughter was facing today.
Angelina sighed, not quite sure what to say to her mother, the daily sights of the pasture and wood fences whizzing by in a blur. It was an early spring morning and she almost wished she could smell the white and yellow honeysuckle growing on edges of the cow pasture. Instead, the car smelled of the sad imitation of a flower’s scent, balmy incense that had its point of origin in a wavering 2-inch air freshener cut out of Our Lady of Guadalupe that swayed gently with the motion of the car, its cut out hand motioning in a gesture of blessing towards this way and that. Angelina watched the little holy lady sway, noting the irony of her presence in the car as she asked finally steeled the resolve to ask her mother a very important question.
“Mom...have you ever had bad dreams?” She turned to her mother, her green eyes searching her well-tanned face for the answer. Though her mom always carried a smile on her, she’d always known her to have wisdom beyond her years. There was that particular ability of hers to know when something was wrong, no matter what expression Angelina might put on for show, but never ever would she force an issue. She’d nod in her own way and gently conduct her interrogation with that knowing look, that simple stare or tone in her voice that made you think she already knew what she could not possibly know before you said it.
Elena kept her eyes on the road, the morning sun filtering through her sunglasses while she pondered the question her daughter put to her. The corners of her mouth pulled back in a puzzled expression that caused wrinkles of worry to appear in their stealthy positions outside the borders of her mouth and underneath her dark brown eyes. For a moment, she suddenly looked old to Angelina, but not because her mother was particularly old looking. In fact, she was only a few years past 40 according to her mother’s claim, but because there was a bending of her facial features that expressed a deeper worry carried by those strange tiny folds of skin that lined her face in places that had not been unsettled in years. The rear view mirror caught the last of the spring green pasture as they reached the midway point in their journey to Angelina’s high school.
“Mom?” Angelina asked again, unsettled by her mother’s silence.
“I don’t dream much anymore, dear.” She finally answered, seeming to realize that the silence was disturbing her daughter, “I don’t dream much at all.”
Angelina’s brow knitted in frustration, though she tried to hide the look from her mother by looking out the window. “What about religious dreams?” The words finally came out, the honesty that forced them equally forcing Angelina to confront her mother’s wise, worried face again.
Still no answer. That unfamiliar flicker of some hidden emotion worked its way behind her mother’s dark eyes. Angelina had never seen it before, the old fear that seemed to suck the life out of her mother’s normally rich Latino features.
“I remember one thing that happened Three King’s Day.” A hint of that familiar warm happiness made the wrinkles partially retreat from under her eyes. Angelina knew part of this story if only for their family’s yearly tradition during January. A few days after Christmas they’d pack shoeboxes full of grass and leave them so the three King’s could feed their camels and find their way to the baby Jesus. Angelina had always thought she was lucky to be Spanish Catholic on those days because it meant more presents, though she’d never really understood why they’d leave boxes for grungy shepherd men that had died centuries ago.
“One time after Christmas when the Sabbath had passed and my sister and I were ready to get our next presents for Three King’s Day, we’d picked the grass ourselves and stuffed our shoeboxes to the brim. I couldn’t sleep that night, only stare at the grass, waiting for the camels to come.” She smiled softly at the memory, the nostalgia evident in the way she spoke, as if there was no one else in the world that could have created this scene from the past but Elena de la Cruz.
“And that’s when I saw them standing over me.”
Angelina leaned over in her seat, stressing against the seat buckle. “Saw who?” She blinked a few times, fascinated by her mother’s story. Right now, she couldn’t tell whether she was joking or serious, but she awaited the answer anyways.
“The kings, the Three Kings.” Her mother continued. “They were looking at my offering. Checking it for quality I guess.”
Angelina almost laughed, sure her mother was joking now. “And what did they look like?”
“You know. The basic Arabic stuff, with turbans, long brown robes. I remember that they were dirty, as if they’d been traveling a very great distance on a long road.”
“So what did they do then?” An amused smile curled Angelina’s lips at the corners. Her mother was doing a good job of making her forget about her horrible dream.
“I don’t know what they did then, I was scared so I pulled the covers over my head and stayed safe inside them till morning.” Her mother ended her story with a knowing chuckle. Angelina barely had time to react though before the flagpole of Southgate High sped by signaling that they had reached their destination. Angelina gave a sigh. Time to face the awful AP English exam.
“We’ll talk more about this later, sweetie.” Her mother leaned over, placing a tender finger on her cheek. “Bad dreams are just that, dreams. Now good luck on your exam! I know you’ll do fine.”
Angelina said goodbye, even though she felt like there was something her mother wasn’t telling her. The story about the kings was such an odd one. Something in the way her mother told it kept her from dismissing it as a mere story to make her smile. Her face had lit up when she told it, as if some deep inspiration kept the memory of that Three King’s Day as vibrant as the spring day that warmed the brick steps leading Angelina towards the fateful exam.
Elena watched her daughter disappear past the glass double doors, her eyes heavy with a hidden worry. She did something she hadn’t done in a very long time. She prayed, the well worn words of the Hail Mary enforcing the wish that God might have mercy on her daughter, that her suspicions were empty ones. She would have to watch Angelina, and pray for her protection against something she’d hidden long ago.
* * *
Angelina sighed. The exam had gone well, the day had followed its normal cycle of first period, second period, and now it was lunch recess. Around her, the echoes of the latest gossip, who’s going with who, what was due, and other bits of conversation filled the courtyard. Angelina escaped all that, however, by finding her favorite bench in the southern half of the outside clearing lined by marble pillars. Thankfully empty of chattering high school students, she claimed the little area as her own space and sat shaded by the tall crape myrtles that stood guard at each end of the bench. They were no longer bushes, but trees that had stood there since before she began school at Southgate. Grey flecks of bark were peeling away to expose the white old wood beneath. The bench’s planks had warmed with the morning sun, the wood rich and dark brown like her hair. Angelina loved to run her fingers along the edge of the bench, feeling the rough wear from rain and the ‘eyes’ of the tree where disembodied branches would have been. Here she felt alone and at peace, safe from the echoes of gossip, homework, and who’s who.
Yet still her mind kept creeping back to the memory of the dream, that somehow inspiring nightmare. It couldn’t have been the exam about Dante that caused the dream, there was just too much. She wondered if Dante wrote his tale because of some mad vision that came to him in the night, or was he simply over-imaginative? She’d studied religious texts before for class and never had they caused such dreams. Sure, she’d read the bible, knew the prayers from her mother’s recitations, gone to Sunday school, but never had she experienced a dream so real like the one she’d been trying to push to the back of her mind all day. A dream was a dream, but a wound was not so easy for her to dismiss. Her chest throbbed with a dull pain, the wound still there even if the dream was not.
Real was the only word that came to mind. Not reality as in the courtyard with its sun-baked grass and gossiping voices, but a sort of sensation that filtered and flitted like the fuchsia petals of the old crape myrtles that towered over her. In the dream, she was both the observer and the dreamer, taking part in every sensation of pain and presence, knowing things intimately even though she had no reason to. It was like she was another person watching another self so inhuman, yet so alive with a feeling of awareness that seemed to magnify the touch of wood under her fingers. Around her, the rosy petals landed softly, drifting gracefully on the spring breeze, calling on that dream with the force of curiosity, that drive she had to simply want to know the meaning. Reality for her in the dream wasn’t something that she was used to, like the waking world. It was something she became intensely made aware of, like a needle through her finger.
I remember the crape myrtles that stood around us, how they swayed in the wind, their flush petals showering everything with their soft beauty. The wind wrapped around me, a gentle blanket of warmth that lulled my senses into a placid state. Falling petals filled the Garden to an endless blue horizon swept by beams of sunlight. My senses drank up the light, absorbing it, letting it quiet me to a state of peace. This place was beauty, it filled a part of me that was always full, yet I had never noticed. So natural it felt to be wrapped in warmth and tranquility. This place was the Garden. Eden. I had never witnessed such beauty awakened. Every petal and flash of sunlight etched into my memory should I ever be forced to leave it like so many others had.
The children stood hand and hand at my side, so fragile, their eyes looking to me for protection against the world. I was their Light, their Guardian Angel, these frail and tender children of God. I looked to Adam and to Eve and told them to stay in the safety of the Garden for there was a journey I must undertake. My guardianship of them required that I take the journey into the Garden alone. He was waiting for me there at the center.
I looked back at the children once more before I began the long trek into the forest. Their pure eyes followed me into the darkness of the forest, showing nothing of the knowledge that they would be left naked without my guidance. The trees grew taller and taller till their steeple limbs blocked out the rays of the ever-present sunlight. My footsteps walked in blue darkness that grew thicker as the forest did. The cross of a cathedral rose in my vision, its steeple pointing like a finger straight to Heaven. I was nearly there. He was waiting.
It was a grand cathedral, its very walls spoke silently of ages gone by in the heart of the Garden. Bits of rainbow light froze, entrapped in the stained glass windows that adorned the front. I passed through the doorway, a great tympanum of a blackened granite angel marking the entryway into a hallowed place. My mission set in my mind. He is here, at the center, a relic of ages passed.
The hallways opened before me, larger than the tiny edifice seemed upon inspection of the outside. I knew these halls. I’d walked them many times but never had I passed into the center. The guardian of the door awaited me. She was a golden figure, a statuette of beauty with six arms, each swaying gracefully, each of her six hands gripping the different blade of a perfectly sharpened edge. The alabaster quality of her skin caught the flickers of a violet sunset filtering through the fragmented glass of the windows. As the sunshine faded and meandered beneath the shadow of the trees, I knew that my back would be to the rest of Heaven if I proceeded into the center alone.
"I will not let you pass." She spoke to me, each arm wrapping and unwrapping about her form. "Eternity without rest." She spoke of an old punishment decreed before the foundations of the door that she guarded.
I bowed my head to her. Filaments of a golden gown slipped down her figure, her eyes shining with stolen light that faded into the darkening hallways of marble. Despite the jewels of her eyes, her voice sang to me dangerously, assuring me that passing through the door meant my own damnation. My mission was sure. I would continue and I walked forward knowing full well I was not allowed passage. The goddess grew angered by my willingness to step forward and deny her function. She tipped her blades dangerously as my footsteps descended one after the other. The mission was all, my Light is all.
The blade penetrated my chest before my senses registered the hardened edge slicing through the air. I looked down to see it there embedded in my heart, a great mass of fear rose in my bowels and spluttered out with the heartbeat that sent streams of red blood flowing down my clean white robes. My mouth gaped open, the words of a prayer hanging loosely on my lips as my legs weakened, unable to support the weight of my dying body. I fell to the floor, my cheeks meeting the cold, reflective marble. The golden goddess weaved her arms in the air in triumph.
This could not be happening. It was impossible. I felt like I had fallen into the floor, yet my body remained prone on it, my blood tracing paths around my pale fingers. Grayness surrounded me, a silver mist that cut me off from the tranquility of the Garden. My senses caught in a blaze of hot agony at the thought of being separated from Eden, the place tied to my very being, to Creation. The ecstasy of death hit me, making my whole body shiver.
I cannot die. Death in this place, to a being such as myself was an illusion, a test of my endurance. For a moment, I had confused myself for a mortal confined by fragile flesh. My silver eyes flitted open with fiery white power, with the glory of He who had cast me in a divine frame. With one motion, I removed the blade and threw it upon the floor, its blade clinking loud and empty of blood. The goddess watched me, her six arms still. She was a statue guardian once more.
The halls of Eternity opened freely to me. I traipsed down the hallway, each sure step resounding. All around, the glass of the cathedral carried stars cut out against the canvas of night. The windows raised high into proud rosettes nestled atop pointed arches. The tracery carried a delicate, wispy eminence only the Divine could inspire. The hallways dimmed even more, lit only by the reflective luster of the white marble floor. Finally, I was at the heart of the cathedral where He awaited me. Just a step through the doors would take me to Him. The singular set of black wooden doors marked the beginning of His world, and the end of mine. They leered over me, taunting me with their magnificent carvings that told of a battle long past, but never forgotten by those who fought in Heaven’s war.
Through the great wooden doors began a world within a world. A vast plain opened before me. An endless storm raged all about the blackened skies. Sporadic flashes of lightening cascaded from thunderhead to thunderhead till they converged in the center where a great vortex spun, illuminated only by the sparkling remainders of lightening. The peals of thunder roared into a constant bellow I knew as His voice, His very essence. Him. All around, the luminosity of the presence shining from my vestments intruded on his prison, making my attendance expressly known.
Rage, anger, lightening, and storm all spun about in a dissonance of madness that encircled me as soon as I stood at the base of the vortex.
"I have come for you, Lightbringer." I addressed the entity before me. I was here for Him. I was empowered to bring Him back. I had a mission. "Your time of pain is over."
The vortex quieted, His voice soothingly surrounded me, speaking into me in a way that defied the simple complex of words. To hear Him was to understand instantly all thoughts, intentions, and notions that came before the Word.
"Why should I go? I know no Light in Heaven that would see me back."
I addressed the void again, my mission sure. "You have but to redeem yourself and all is forgiven. Lucifer, the morning star can shine again"
The vortex spun around me, ever- turning.
"Ah, my child. You are deceived. The gates of Heaven will not open to me. The keepers will not dare unlock it for one such as I. The Light will not forgive me."
"They are already open. You have but to walk through them." The answer was simple.
The vortex paused for just an instant. Everything stopped for the flicker of an eyelid. Then the world raged again.
"And what would you give me, angel? I have need of one such as you. With your resolve, with your soul, I could learn much about repentance. I could learn much of Heaven, I only wish for your soul to return to it."
I contemplated this greatly. How better to teach Him than to let Him see through me? Such a bargain was not prepared for, it was unheard of, and yet I knew, I knew this was the only way. I had come expecting the lies of the Adversary, and yet the language of angels, even the Fallen, is of pure understanding, an instantaneous knowledge of one’s conceit, of all the truths and untruths that made up the past of one’s existence. His intentions were pure. The need for repentance shone unerringly on his soul.
With a thought, the deal was consented. The black void pressed in on me, satisfied, it interwove itself within me, a tapestry of sadness and pride coiled into a singular being. The storm rushed into all my thoughts. I could see Him smiling there, satisfied.
The bargain was sealed.
* * *
“You can’t tell anyone about this. Okay sweetie? Not even our priest.” Elena cradled her daughter’s head in her arms, stroking her fingers through her dark hair in an effort to comfort her. For a month now, the dream had recurred, never abandoning Angelina long enough for her to dismiss it as just a dream, the wound aching each time she remembered the piercing blade.
When she’d finally told her mother about the dream, she’d started to cry and that was all the proof Elena needed to realize her fears. She knew even before she saw the wound on her child’s chest. A small wound now, still purple with bruising.
“But mom. I don’t understand, I just don’t.” Angelina sobbed, her voice muffled by her mother’s shoulder. “What does it mean? What are you hiding from me?” Angelina pulled back from her mother and dug her fingers into the seat of their grey cloth couch. For a moment, her mother’s brown eyes dimmed and her dusky features returned to that old stare, the one she’d only caught glimpses of.
“Your father left me because of this. He grew away from me, said I needed medical attention. All because I told him the truth.” Her voice wore thin as she explained, Angelina staring at her distant eyes, her face locked in a mixture of sadness and confusion. Mom had never talked about her father before. He’d left before she was born and had never seen him since. Just like the dream, she’d pushed him to the back of her mind. She was happy with her mom, her school, her home. Why bother bringing to mind someone who had never set foot in her life nor cared enough to call on her birthdays?
“They called it hypnagogic hallucination, schizophrenia, stress-induced delirium, borderline personality disorder, all sorts of names, but I know better, just as my mother knows better. But we don’t speak anymore, we don’t dream. You can’t tell anyone, Angelina.” Her mother’s eyes finally returned to her, lighting with a passion of the memories she’d always kept deep down. “People just can’t understand it. It is the way of women in our family. We’ve always had this gift.”
“But mom, I don’t understand…” Angelina’s voice cracked as she started crying again. All this was too much to take in, first about her father, and now about the dreams, and her mother. Suddenly, all the little scars on her mother’s arms came to her attention. For years, she’d lived with them and accepted them as a part of her mother’s everyday appearance, the little slashes across the muscle of her forearms that interrupted the tan hue of her skin. There was another scar over her inner wrist, round and flattened and partially hidden by a golden charm bracelet her mother wore every day. The same scar showed itself on her other wrist as well, a near perfect circle of scarred flesh covered by another bracelet. Now she was certain there were more she’d never seen. She recalled all the times her times her mother never wore a bathing suit or anything that would reveal more of her skin than was necessary. Angelina grasped her mother’s wrists, staring at the scars for the first time in her life.
“What does it mean mom? Can’t you tell me why we have these dreams?” She ran her thumbs over the scars, wounds so similar to the wounds of Christ. She looked to her mother again, hoping and praying for the answer that might bring her comfort at night when she woke up with cuts and bruises, or worse.
“They don’t mean anything anymore, Angelina. Now hush.” Her strong fingers closed around Angelina’s hands, squeezing them in a reassuring grasp. “Don’t speak. Don’t dream. It’s not worth it. You have your schooling and you have your whole life to pay attention to. You make me proud, Angelina, you always will. The dreams don’t mean anything except to ourselves and God.”
“But…what am I supposed to do?” Angelina implored her mother. Her answer hadn’t been good enough. How could she just ignore everything? Why hadn’t she ever told her any of this before? What was she supposed to do now? How could her mother live her life carrying something so unique inside?
“Tell you what. You wait here and I’ll go make us some pancakes for dinner. How does that sound?” That sad look disappeared from her mother’s face, or rather, was forced underneath the warm smile she presented to the world. Tonight they would have pancakes and rebel against the set tradition of dinner. There would be no peas, steak, or pork chops. Angelina let her mother pull the knitted red afghan up around her chin as she laid back in the couch, grasping onto that familiar feeling of sinking into its cushions to keep her mind at ease.
* * *
The next day, Angelina awoke to a normal early morning, immediately refusing to let her mind wander about anything but getting ready for school, breakfast, and the long drive to Southgate. Today was the day of the next big exam, this time on The Great Gatsby and Angelina planned for an A no matter what. She carefully dressed herself in a t-shirt with a high enough collar to hide the hint of bruising that remained. If there were more wounds she hadn’t noticed, she’d simply cover them. If there were more dreams, she’d simply let them melt away like most dreams did. She had an exam to beat, and maybe in a year or so, a college to apply for. Everything was right with the world and the future, and everything else, she’d keep under cotton tees, band aids, and prayer beads. She’d be a success for her mother because she was the only person her mother had left.
With one last glance at the little cut-out Mary hanging above her mother’s rear view mirror, she prayed for strength, waved goodbye, and headed for that special place in the courtyard that reminded her so much of the Garden and its trees.
There she could study why Gatsby hid behind rich shirts and sporty cars.
Hidden WoundsA Story by Angela Sasser What would you do if you had visions? Would you dismiss them as a passing dream? Or covet them as divine? What would you do if they left you bleeding? Written for Advanced Creative Writing class back in 2005. Inspired by the stories of my mother an
© 2008 Angela SasserAuthor's Note
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