My Angel

Can a visit from an angel heal a tragic past?

“For as long as I can remember, I have borne these wings,” said the angel.

I waited for the last words before I spoke.

“Why me?” I asked.

“Because you are special,” the angel said.

All my life I’ve heard those words being said to me but I never really understood its meaning.

“But why am I special?” I whispered as I closed my eyes, holding back the tears that were threatening to leak out.

“When the time comes,” for a moment the angel’s voice resounded in my room.

Then silence.

I wanted to open my eyes but I knew, as when all the previous times I opened my eyes, that I will see nothing.

 

It had been a week since the angel’s visit. I couldn’t say if the angel kept some kind of schedule. He had only visited twice and for all I know his recent visit was the last. Nonetheless, every time I woke up in the middle of the night, I expected to see the angel again regardless of my reluctance to become a part of a divine plan, obliged to make a great sacrifice.

I didn’t know what these angelic visitations portend or how they would proceed, but for the first time in my life I could see.

 

I called my mother last night. She sounded so happy hearing my voice. I wanted to tell her about the angel but I was afraid to sound stupid.

I could hear her saying, “But Valerie, how could you possibly see anything, you’re blind honey?” She wouldn’t be that forthright, of course, but well, she had never been one to believe in miracles.

 

When I was young, my mother once took me to church. It had become a habit of mine to put a face to every voice I hear.

That time there were so many voices inside the church that I felt sick and ended up throwing up on my seat. My mother rushed me out to get me some fresh air and said it was a good thing there was nobody else inside the church or I could’ve messed up someone’s shoes or something.

I never told her about the voices.

And that was the last time I stepped inside a church.

 

“I’m drawing, Mom,” I said.

“What was that dear?” she sounded worried.

“Yeah, no kidding, this guy in the store asked me if the crayons I wanted was for someone else, I swear if I could see I would laugh at his reaction when I say that the crayons are for me.”

“So,” my mother faltering said. “What are you drawing? I mean my dear, have you shown anyone your work?”

“No, not yet, I’m still building a collection for an exhibit. Just kidding mom,” I answered. “I only did one drawing that’s it.”

“So, what is it?” she asked, trying very hard not to make me feel stupid.

“It’s an angel,” I said.

 

I didn’t know how angels ought to look like. But the angel in my sketch had two large wings twice as long as a man’s height, and green for they were covered with leaves instead of feathers.

The angel’s head appeared to be burning because of the halo; a fiery halo above its shoulders illuminating its whole body. Its face was white without eyes, nose, ears and mouth, like it was covered with a bonnet stretched all the way down the chin; its body, very thin and with skin stretched overly taut.

 

My mother came to see me two days after I called her. She wanted to see some of my drawings but I knew she was terribly worried about me and of what I had been doing.

I must’ve done a dozen drawings in two days - the same subject, the same angel.

My mother insisted that I visit my optometrist in the morning. I said yes, not wanting to argue with her.

 

My doctor said it was a medical breakthrough. He said that there was no chance of my regaining my eyesight, no chance at all. No surgery could have fixed my eyes, which was at that moment recuperating on its own.

There had been no medical precedent; my case was special, the doctor added.

I did not really understand what the doctor meant by “special” even when he declared that I would have my eyesight very soon.

 

After a month in the hospital, they let me go back to my apartment. It was the first time that I didn’t rely on my cane and my faithful eye-dog, Book, to help me on my way home.

There were so many things I needed to get used to, needed to stop doing, like staring at every face I come across or following every sound that I hear.

There was a preschool on the way to my apartment. Every time I passed by, I always wondered what the kids looked like. I imagined them bouncing around with their rainbow bags and rainbow jackets and smiles on their round faces. Hearing their high pitched voices delighted me.

I walked slowly on the sidewalk waiting for the bell to signal the afternoon recess. But there was none that day. I looked back down the street trying to figure out if I was in the right place. Six steps after the red curb, three steps from the first parking meter, one step before the tree pot. I’d walked down this street every afternoon; I knew I could not have made a mistake.

But there was nothing here.

There was no preschool; just an old building that seemed unoccupied for years. I felt nauseous for a moment but the doctor said this would happen from time to time.

I glanced around then quickened my pace.

 

It was late in the afternoon and the sky had turned a deep shade of orange and bluish grey. I remembered the day I moved in my apartment. Mother told me I have a great view of the sunset. I told her, not with a little sarcasm, that I would indeed enjoy the view everyday.

I went inside what I supposed was my apartment. Everything was where it should be, but still, something was completely different.

These were the things I touched everyday, the things I owned since the day I moved in. I touched my things and they felt the same in my hands. And yet I was sure they were not mine.

I had a different image of my things. I had attributed different colors to each of them. Now, I felt disappointed when I saw that the couch, which I thought for a long time was brown, was green.

Everything was not the same.

And then I saw the angel outside my window. It confused me for a while and then I suddenly realized that what I was seeing was only the silhouette of a tree.

There was no angel after all.

I felt so stupid and I started to cry.

In a fit of rage, I seized my drawings and threw it all out.

 

I sat next to the phone for about half an hour, thinking of how to tell my mother that she was a rotten liar. I knew it was unfair. She only did what she think was best for me even if it meant lying to me the entire time. I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t know who to blame. The only person I could think of now was my mother even if it wasn’t her fault that my couch was green.

Dad answered the phone with his usual toneless voice. I rarely talked to my father. He always kept to himself. Being aloof I supposed is a common trait among fathers.

“Hi Dad,” I said.

“Hello, Valerie. How are you?” he asked as if I was a mere acquaintance.

“I’m fine thanks. Can I talk to Mom?”

“What? What are you talking about? Valerie, honey, are you alright?” He sounded confused and slightly alarmed.

“Yes, I’m fine Dad, really. I just want to talk to Mom.”

The white phone grew silent but for the heavy breathing I often heard coming out of my father every time Mom confronted him.

“Why are you doing this, Valerie?” my father began.

“What do you mean why am I doing this?” My voice began to rise. I could feel my temple throbbing.

“Your mother is dead,” my father said calmly. “She has been for years,” he whispered.

“I don’t know what’s happened to you, Valerie. Since your mother died, you’ve been acting like it was entirely my fault. You shut yourself away. You even make up stories just to ignore me.

“I know it’s hard for you. Your mother’s death was hard for everyone. But pretending she’s not wouldn’t bring things back the way they were, Valerie.

“Let me come over to keep you company, just stay there and wait for me, okay honey.”

I couldn’t understand what Dad was saying. I closed my eyes and let my tears run down my face.

 

It all happened when I was eight.

We were heading home from one of my father’s office parties. I didn’t want to come but at that age what I wanted did not matter at all.

Despite being drunk, my father insisted on driving the car. Mom wanted to object but my father began his rhythmic heavy breathing, a sign that my mother needs to drop the subject or else she’s in for a long argument, one she would never win. I knew my mother would never end a wonderful night with a fight so she kept silent.

The traffic light turned red as our car approached the intersection. My mother knew that my father would try to beat the red light so she touched his right arm to signal him that he shouldn’t. He let out an air of annoyance between his teeth and retorted that there wasn’t any other vehicle around within a hundred miles. But he stopped the car nonetheless as my mother gave him one of her fiery glare.

I could feel my father’s impatience as he drummed the steering wheel with his fat fingers. He turned his head left and right looking down the road then at the rearview mirror and caught me staring at him. He gave me a wink then he made a funny face, just like he always did every time Mom put him in a tight spot. I turned to the window and stifled a smile.

The road was empty that night, as my father said. I always had the impression that my father knew everything, so for a moment I resented my mother for rebuking him.

The streetlamp on the red curb flickered, and the maple tree above it appeared to move and emerge from the darkness. I remembered closing my eyes and wishing that my father would continue driving.

Then from the shadow of the tree a man with a red cap suddenly staggered out, trying to keep his balance. I could imagine his clothes and his tattered jacket reeking with beer.

He stopped by the car and peered through the passenger side window. Even up close I could not see his face completely; his features were cast into shadow by his cap.

My father started to move the car just as the man in the red cap reached in his pocket as if taking something out. I never saw the gun but the sound it made rang in my ears like it was fired just a few feet from me.

I expected to feel the bullet pierce through me but there was none. I heard my father asking if I was alright, his head darted from the road and towards me then to my mother then back to the road.

“Everything will be fine and just hold on. We’ll be in the hospital in no time. Just hold on,” he shouted, stomping his hands on the steering wheel.

I wanted to tell him not to worry, that I was fine and that there was no need to rush to the hospital. But then I knew that he wasn’t talking to me as I could hear Mom’s labored breathing.

I looked out of my window trying not to think about my mother. My eyes bloated with tears and I could not see anything clearly.

All I could see were the streetlamps and the trees; angels all lined up on the side of the road to guide my mother to paradise.

 

I felt my father help me to my bed.

“It’s okay, honey. Daddy’s here. Everything will be alright,” he whispered.

My father tucked me in and gave me a kiss for the first time since Mom died.

I opened my eyes and prayed not to see anything.

The streetlamp illuminated the room. Everything appeared to be burning including the maple tree towering over my window.

I didn’t know how angels ought to look like but I knew this was my angel.

Author's Note

This is one of my first short stories. I wrote this waaay back around 2007, when I first got interested in writing - then I completely stopped writing after 2008, unfortunately.
I really wanted to make this a horror story but I turned out differently - somewhat dramatic that doesn't really make sense. XD Teehee...
This story was inspired by the Hong Kong film "Gin Gwai" (the Hollywood remake of this film was The Eye, which I haven't seen.) But like I said, my story turned out very differently.
And yes, Gin Gwai is an awesome horror movie! XD

Reviews

[Jūdan FyreHeart]

Ooo I've seen the original japanese version of the eye (with subtitles) but not the american re-make.

This was a cool little story, different to your more modern stuff. As always you got the emotions and imagery down very well. You did a far better job than the thing I attempted back in 2007 :-P

[KAREN]

Awesome interesting read. Very entertaining with great imagery and flow!

[Aurora Lynn]

This was a good story! You told it really well, using a good voice that fits the story. Some parts were a little bit confusing and I couldn't tell if it were an adult talking or a child talking. One minute it was like 'your mom is dead', then the next it was 'your mom is alive'. I understood it eventually, but you might want to clear it up a little bit. Other than that, I really liked to read it. Thank you for writing and entering this into my contest!
~Aurora Lynn, from 'In Too Deep'

[GlamGirl]

This is awesome! I really like it! It is a bit confusing at one point, it was hard to follow. I like the concept though!

[Rose Masen]

So sad, yet so full of understanding, believing, and courage. It was amazing.

[Rory CJ Frankson]

I thought this to be a very good short, it held elements of mystery and twists that raised questions, some answered... some not. I felt it holds the capasity to be continued, to mention that yes. It may be a early attempt, and not turn out as you had intended. That is interesting in itsself, like a story revealing itsself to you. I've lived through the likes of that, in this story of gaining back sight, it holds many different possibilities in all that was percieved in darkness and is not the the same, as it comes to light... but what is, coming to light?

What is the Angels message? Why is the character Valerie, particularirily special? Why did the Angel grant her back her sight. If in deed... it was the Angel? Or even an Angel, to begin with? Could it all be a dellussional experience. Am I mad?

I never seen the movie reffered to, yet many ways are there to be inspired to create a story or, a plot dynamic. In my writing I never give up on a thread, this piece is like that, following a thread presented. A great short is all wrapped up neatly, a novel on a page... this page, presents a novel. Creates the character and circumstance, yet leaves too many open end questions... for the reader.

We require more...

I think if you rolled up your socks and gave this story your undivided attention. It holds a worthy plot dynamic and many different possibilities for ascribed detail in the discriptive. The actual... in the gaining back sight, the memory of trauma and what it is to be blind. The weirdness, of what the sight may have brought back... real, or unreal. Maybe, it isn't a horror story? It may be a mystic revealed path, a thriller with real content. Why was she shot by the percieved drunk, why was there an attempt to take her out of the world... before she grew up?

I could have many of these type of thoughts over your short, the writing for a earlier attempt and the first I've read, says to me that you have and hold some talent. Even emptiness and lathargic periods, hold something for a writer. That brooding horror of the empty page. I've been stalked by stories, that wouldn't leave me space to breath. Chase me through cycles, that I had to go through in order to write such a story. There is a stretching that comes and the story must pass the short form and, a novelist emerge. To be honest, that is my feeling here.

I'll read on and through your newer work, yet that is the feel. Spread your wings, stretch your discriptive vocabulary. Fill in the darkened room, tell us how and why... it holds, such profound doom. Grant us, the mystery... you hold at the very end of your fingers. At that place, where your soul lingers and searches for meaningful spirit, to continue on with...?

[Sofia Lara Cruz]

This is an amazing start to what I think could be an amazing book xD It's a shame you have stopped writing, but it's a privilege to have read this:)

[PaperHearts]

Great story! I really like the fact that despite the simplistic way in which you write, the ideas and themes within your story are always so profound and insightful. There's a certain depth and maturity to your work that I really admire, and I appreciate the way in which your stories evoke emotion and challenge my thinking. I enjoyed this a lot. :)
~PaperHearts

[Marie Harrison]

I've seen that movie, it is a great horror movie.

I loved your story. I enjoyed all of the twists and turns. I wasn't expecting the gun and the shooting. I love your short stories. Keep them coming!

[Deactivated_BurningDemo..]

O:
I love it, it's amazing.
So jealous you wrote this..

I loved the ending.