Angels of America: A Circle of the Fallen novella

by Wendy Maddocks

  Hunger brings me back to consciousness. With multi-colored shapes twirling and dancing behind my closed eyelids, I let myself believe I’m back at home with Mom-waitress cooking breakfast down the hall. Bacon. And eggs. And toast. The stuff I never see the point in cooking just for me. A full day of boring classes and enforced jollity at the pep rally this evening lie ahead.

  The madness of last year just… disappeared one day and life suddenly turned into the normality everyone else had always had. Memories of that time are fading a little bit more every day.

  I open my eyes slowly, hating that I have to let go of my perfect fantasy life and go back into that pit of flame and pain. But I don’t come back to choking fumes. I stare straight up at a white ceiling, tinged with the power blue of dawn light. Clean, fresh air. There’s a bandage around my arm which itches like crazy but opening the burn to the air would sure hurt much more. My head kicks like a pissed off ass and I slap my hand to hold in a scream when I try to wiggle my foot. Hot tears spring to my eyes but I bite my lip until they subside. I only allow myself a minute or two to wallow in self-pity (which I’m becoming surprisingly good at) then try to work myself into a sitting position. With only one usable hand – and even that hurts because of all the tiny, healing cuts there – it takes forever and a lot more lip-biting. Eventually, I’m far enough up to look around me properly. The room is almost as large as my entire apartment but furnished with stuff that is clean, modern and actually matches. There is a white dresser by the large window, with a mirror on one side and a set of shelves on the other, with some lotions and potions on. A comfortable red armchair by the door contains a man I’ve never seen before who is watching me intently. I can see a bookcase bursting with books and magazines and a pile of games on the floor beside it. A flat screen TV is set into the wall right over it and, as I stare, it blazes into life and a huge face fills it.

  “Welcome home, Rose. You were unconscious for quite some time.”

  I don’t know what to do so I just let the man jump out of his chair and help me stack up my pillows so I can lean back and listen to Mariah.

  “We were getting quite worried. I hope that your attendant has been keeping you entertained since you woke. Oh, and he should have attended to your various injuries.” Apart from my ankle, I can’t deny that everything else feels cool and clean. No soot on my skin and some kind of soothing gel has been smeared around my eyes to take the sandpaper feel away.

  “Talk,” urges my ‘attendant’.

  I don’t wanna. I shrug instead.

  “Everything you will find in your room is what we have observed as your favorite. A fully stocked walk-in closet. En suite bathroom. Cosmetics, hair accessories, games consoles.”

  “What’s the catch?” I ask, knowing the answer but still wildly hoping it will be different.

  “Why, you can never leave of course.”

  My eyes dart to the door. It’ll be locked.

  “Now, as our guest, your wishes will be met to the best of our ability although I’m sure you appreciate the need for some rules. No escaping obviously. Don’t leave your room unless me or one of my… colleagues fetches you. Three meals a day will be provided and a selection of snacks are in the cooler by your bedside table. Now for the impossible one – try not to argue too much.” Mariah does that little snorty thing, when you think you should laugh but don’t find it funny enough. In truth, I probably would have chucked something at her ugly pixilated face. “The harder you fight us, the harder this process will be. If you have any special requests then just let us know. And enjoy your stay Rose.”

  As soon as her face is a fading after image on the screen, I flip the middle finger at her.

  “And no sign language.” She flashes on and off the screen.

  I pretend not to notice the tight grin on my attendants face. Throwing back the covers, I realize I’m wearing the blue cotton outfit the Keepers dressed me in. So, it was real.

  Well, of course it was real but it’s human nature to try and ignore weird stuff. And it comes back to me, what they said about me almost failing my mission to stop Mariah. Sorry, guys. I’ve already failed. Deal with it. An involuntary shiver sees my attendant racing to turn the thermostat up. “How long have I been out?”

  “Since yesterday evening.” His voice is deep and smooth like syrup, British with a hint of something else in there; I can’t tell what until he speaks more. “Not too long but I was starting to wonder if you were faking!” The smile he shoots at me is genuine-looking – crinkling the corners of his grey eyes as only real smiles can, his teeth almost as bright as the pure platinum of his hair.

  “Believe me no. If I could fake my own death and get out of here, I’d think about it. Christ, even the windows are barred.”

  “They don’t open in case you were wondering. If you get hot, I’ll switch the air con on.” Jamaican. That’s it. His accent has that bluntness of Jamaican patois. “There are vents at the side of the windows if you want real air.”

  “What about exercise, company, fun?”

  He shrugs.

  “I just stay trapped in here forever.” It’s not a shock and I’m not even angry – just resigned. It’s not my fault I knocked myself out and gave Mariah the chance to lock me away. It’s probably not even her fault I’m here; she was just following orders. And who wouldn’t enjoy the thrill of the chase if there was somebody else to blame?

  A memory tickles my brain. I open my mouth to speak but the attendant gets there first.

  “We found your friend. You probably want to see each other, right?”

  I touch my head, rubbing my temples as if the headache is worse than it is, feigning ignorance. “I was with someone?” I want to know who was saved and that they’re safe and well before… I just need to know, okay. “Don’t remember much.”

  “A boy,” he tells me. “Caught in the fire by the entrance. He got burned real bad.”

  “Really. Is he ok?”

  “Rose, it’s not a good idea to visit.” The man knows my name I guess he would if he’s meant to be my servant type. “Now, obviously, I won’t be in your room all the time. Girls need privacy, and what you can do with make-up… well, I’m glad I’m too black for any of it to show up on me. But if you have any questions you can’t ask me then the bookcase is full. of interesting facts.”

  “I am done with learning.”

  “You might find you have no choice here.”

  “Yeah I think I can choose whether I listen to what she’s telling me.” There was no question who the she I meant was. “And if she thinks she can buy my co-operation with all this, this, this luxury then she is seriously mistaken.” Refusing his offered arm, I hobble over to the closet and find a couple of racks of clothes that look to be my size. Various shoes line the floor of the cupboard, not designer but more expensive than I would have ever spent on myself. The drawers in the dresser reveal jumbles of make up, some of which is in my favored light colors. There’s a brand new games console by the TV and the man quietly starts setting it up while I limp off into the bathroom.

  “Leave the door open a crack!” he calls out, sounding far away and distracted. With an eye roll I can’t help, I do it. Luckily, I don’t need to relieve myself (imagine having a complete stranger hearing you pee – gross) but I do turn the faucet until it runs icy cold, splash it on my face, and leave it running while I sit on the closed toilet lid. The clawfoot tub looks so inviting… no. My comfort is not the issue right now. My problems are all mixed up together and I don’t know which one to deal with first. Okay, list.

  Bytheway is alive and here, somewhere. Find him.

  Katie might be dead. Mourn. Move on.

  Co-operate. It’s the only option.

  Find Jack and make him help me.

  Avoid the Keepers.

  Don’t give this guy any reason to hurt me. He will.

  Enjoy this luxur
y while I can.

  Kill Mariah.

  Nope. That really isn’t helping.

  The Keepers told Bytheway he couldn’t come back from where-ever the curtain took him, but they obviously lied. Or maybe they just meant he would come back here and there would be no need to be brought back from anywhere. Whatever they meant, he is here – and I need to find him. Maybe I can’t save him but I’ll try, he must know that. The last week has been so chaotic and whenever I felt like giving up, that stubborn young man wouldn’t let me so what the hell makes anybody think I am going to give up on Bytheway!?

  I’ve been captured and imprisoned in this building so I guess Katie has failed the job to protect me. She said the Keepers would use this as a reason to strip her angel powers and, because she’s underage or some shit like that, take away her Shade afterlife too. Which means she’ll be dead. Bones or ashes in the ground behind some church or other. I should find out where her true remains are and visit. It’s my fault. I didn’t let her save me. Spent so long trying to outrun these guys so I could stay in my own home when I should’ve just let her take me to where-ever she knew to be safe. But… even now that feels like giving up and surrendering to my fate without putting up a fight. Staying here and letting Mariah control however much is left of my life might seem just as much like giving up, however, I have this insane plan to get revenge on Mariah. Actually, plan might be a little too strong for some vague hope that I can get to her and somehow stop her from this. Doubtful, but it might work out without violence. Jesus, I hope so, because I never want to use any kind of weapon again.

  “Rose.” A knock at the door. “You’ve been in there way too long.”

  “I’ll be out in a minute.”

  Which brings me to him. The dude at the door. “Hey! Have you got a name?” I don’t want to keep calling him the man or servant or butler or something; whatever fancy responsibility he has been given he’s still a guard, with orders, who will do whatever it takes to keep me under control.

  “Yeah.”

  “Share.”

  “No, I’m more talented.”

  Faucet off, I open the door and lurch towards the big bed. “You’re not a great conversationalist, you know.”

  He grins again and chooses a book from the middle shelf, taking ages over it. “I’m not here to be. I’ll get some food brought up in awhile. Anything special you want?”

  My stomach growls right on cue and I can’t stop a tiny laugh. “Pepperoni pizza by the ton. And ice cream.”

  “Your wish is my command.” And he’s no longer there, gone as impossibly as a genie though I can hear the fading hum of my door slotting back into its metal grooves, no handle on my side I note. Distant voices echo beyond the door, threatening to loll me back to sleep. So I distract myself with the paperback the attendant left on the covers. It’s old and tattered, the pages yellow and folded over at the corners. The cover is so worn out that the picture and title is obliterated by white streaks where the ink has flaked off. The first page is inscribed with curly letters saying that this novel is part of something called a book chain – which I assume from the list of names underneath it, means that people read it and pass it on to the next. All the other books in the case are bright, clean and new. How did this get in here? Mariah would not approve. The next page says the title is TRUST ME and a tight coil of tension in my mind unfurls, taking my headache with it. I’m not sure who I’m meant to trust or why but I seem to have relaxed a bit. I lie back against my pillows to start reading; I’m just flicking through when a photo falls out, printed onto thin copy paper. The man who seems to be asking me to trust him is sitting on a low wall with his leg bent in front of him, the wall below him lined with trash. A girl is standing on top of the wall stretching down to touch her toes and lifting her head to laugh at whatever he’s saying. Something tickles my attention and I let the back of my brain figure it out while I just feel a bit sad that I’ve lost the freedom this photo represents. Not that I’d ever done any kind of exercise voluntarily but… I might have one day. Maybe. Probably not though.

  There’s a knock at the door and the door is opening before I can even say “come in”. the man from before is standing before me with three decent sized slices on a red plate with a can of diet soda and a tub of ice cream wrapped in a blue cooling gel pack.

  When I’ve finished eating (I honestly didn’t even chew) I hold the photo out. “I know this girl.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “You know her too. I mean, this is you in the picture with her, right?”

  “I don’t know what you talkin’ ‘ bout girl.”

  “Yes, you do. Look, you must have planted this to freak me out. If you’re working for Mariah and you know Katie, then she must be too.” Oh, hello headache, I was wondering where you had got to. “Because she wouldn’t be your friend if she wasn’t. I thought… I thought she was trying to help me.”

  “Maybe she did help you. I mean, you’re safe here.” Really? I don’t feel very safe. “Isn’t that the important thing.”

  “But this is what I was running from. Something bad’s going to happen here, I can feel it. They want me to help them with something and I can’t do it!”

  “Look.” He sits beside me and takes a roll of strapping out to do my ankle and starts unrolling it. “Whatever happens here, they won’t let you die. It might hurt and ache and exhaust you to the point you wish they’d kill you, but they won’t let you die.” He seems to be pulling the bandages tighter every time he talks about my dying like it is making him just as angry as it makes me. “Is it worth staying alive if you can’t live?”

  “Why are you working for Mariah?”

  “I don’t,” he mumbles through the tape he is tearing in his teeth. “I work for The Circle of the Fallen. Somebody has o be in charge of her madness. Between you and me, I think the power of finding you has gone to her head.”

  “She needs to be stopped.”

  I get up and test my leg. I think I can walk on it, more like limp, but it doesn’t hurt half as much as I though it would. When I wobble, the man stretches around me and holds me until I’ve got my balance back. My hand slides down to grip his a little bit too hard: a feeling of lightness and ease fills me. A hint of guilt creeps in. I’m not scared or angry. I should be.

  “So go do it.”

  About the author

  Wendy Maddocks lives in Birmingham, England, with her slightly crazy family. She blames them for her twisted imagination. Sanity is not her friend. She enjoys reading and studying, working out and eating cake, which makes her fat and in need of yet another gym session. (Yes, I’m a masochist!) She also has a fear thing about sheep. After graduating from university, Wendy began publishing her own work online and is always working on new writing projects. What will happen when she runs out of ideas?

  No, let’s not wonder that.

  Connect with her on Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/WendyMaddocksAuthor

  Tumblr - https://wordsbywenz.tumblr.com/

  or on Twitter - @writerwenz84