by A. L. Mengel
She shook her head back and forth, screaming. “No!” She dared not lower her fingers, and took a few steps back towards the wall. As each of her sobs and sniffles emanated through expanding portions of time, she chose to part her fingers – just a tiny, miniscule distance – and peek through them.
To let the sliver of light in.
And then there was the bright lake of crimson across the room.
Daddy’s work boots.
And she saw his body on the floor.
It was Father.
His black pants.
A once white shirt stained with mud and drying blood around the edges, and a pool in the center of his chest.
There was a fresh pool of blood underneath his head, oozing into a larger, ever expanding lake. His eyes were wide open, but saw nothing.
She turned and ran into her room, slamming the door. She ran and jumped onto the bed, burying her face into the pillow, screaming a muffled scream. She didn’t remember much after running away from the small sitting room where her father lay in a lake of blood. She lay, her face buried in the pillow, feeling the warmth of her breath against her face, and she thought she may have fallen asleep.
The room outside was silent.
But daddy was lying there.
Dead in a lake of blood.
As she hovered in the realm of sleep while not fully awake, she thought she remembered the sweet smell of fresh lavender, and when she opened her eyes, she was no longer in her room. As if magical, as if some mythical radiant hands carried her from her tiny bedroom towards an unknown darkness, there she was.
Was it a dream?
She looked down at herself; completely changed, a different being: long, flowing silver hair; a billowing robe, which appeared to be flowing with an unseen wind; a warm, glowing light emanating from behind her. But still, she could tell she was herself.
Her same self.
Her same mind.
Still who she was.
But so physically different.
She stood, but felt no floor. No stones beneath her feet, but she could stand. Her body was soft; grey, almost made of stone. Perhaps a certain angelic statue she could have been; but her, in this new, foreign form, in a world she did not understand, so different from the little girl who had fallen asleep on the bed next to the room where her father’s body lay. But not here, in this cosmic realm, where there was a different sense of who she was.
She reached out and touched her robe.
Soft, supple.
And then her hands.
She looked down. No longer the hands of a child. But not working hands either. Her skin smooth, like glass. Brilliantly white, with the feel of ceramic.
And when she spread her wings, she looked up and saw them reach towards the sky. There was a certain sense of enlightenment; it was not as if there were a gigantic crash of demons falling from the heavens; it were as if music were playing in every dimension; a chorus of angels bathed in gold and in dreams realized, and love which was always understood.
Of tolerance, and acceptance.
And love.
Mostly of love.
She felt that wrap around her as her wings reached their full span, soaring across the sky.
The wings opened a world where all were loved and accepted, where the arguments were ceased and happiness endured; there was no longer any violence and the demons and the monsters were held at bay. She looked down and saw them chained below in the darkness.
Her vision was clearing. The mist that swirled below was lifting.
She could see a sea, a watery ocean below, waves crashing against stones. Her mind flashed, with images of darkness and blood, and she was standing on the large, flat stones.
The darkness swirled below her, and the stones which she now stood on – her feet, cold, tired, muscular and dirty – plastered over the rocks; her feet holding their stance; the wet, frigid boulders separated her from a field of skulls which the dark mist revealed below; but beneath that bit of earth – those same stones – were thrashing limbs; pasty white; arms which reached from a frigid sea from which they may never emerge. Faint light penetrated swirling, angry clouds.
But did she, when she stood, wrap herself in thorns?
Did she take the sharp assault willingly? Did she, as an angel, accept those transgressions as part of her being? The roping thorns appeared and she had no means to avoid them. As if tearing from the sky.
The thorns wrapped around her torso, tightly and leading up towards her bosoms, drawing a thin line of blood from the curves and under the arms where the thorns dug deep into her skin. She cried out as the thorns tore at her skin.
But the thorns she accepted.
The thorns were what she chose – under her own free will – to take on, to wear like a badge of courage, of commitment, and strength.
But it was in those thorns were the sins of those she saved, and even then, one can only take on so much. Can’t they? And so she reached a point – a certain, quite specific time – with which she desired to be cleansed.
And then a thought permeated her mind.
Just a tiny, fleeting picture – a single skull in the sand on the beach. Far beyond where she stood above, she saw it far below on the sandy beach, amidst crawling bodies, their pasty limbs clawing through the sand.
But it was the skull that she saw.
Far below, but suddenly right in front of her face. She now stood at the edge of the water, and as the cool surf splashed over her bare feet, she turned around and looked at the skull, half buried in the sand. Beyond, in the center of the sea, were the stones she had stood on. Now, with just a fleeting thought, she was on the beach. But as she looked out towards the sea, she saw it darken. The water that lapped at the shores appeared clear. But she could see farther. Towards the dark center of the sea. Where the limbs were thrashing. She closed her eyes. She heard the dull roar of the surf. But as she concentrated, in the distance, she could hear more. A faint moaning. Screaming. She opened her eyes and looked out towards the center of the sea.
The screams were deafening.
Moans.
Crying.
Sobbing.
And where the mist swirled and covered the dirty secret. The lost souls. The forgotten ones. Those who she felt she must stand with. “I will stand with you,” she said, looking out towards the sea. Another rope of thorns tore through her abdomen. She fell to her knees, crying out. She raised her hands up towards the sky and looked up for a moment. A beacon of light filtered down through a break in the clouds.
She looked back down at the tiny skull.
Could it have been that of a child?
Certainly not a full grown adult. Just lying in the sand, covered in dirt. It was slightly crooked; tipped on its side, with part of the head and eye sockets peering out from the sand.
She crouched down and crawled over towards it, never taking her eyes off of it. As she approached the skull, she bent down and tried to pull it out of the sand, but the ground was still wet from the high tide, and it took a great deal of effort to pull it out of the mud.
The skull was heavy, wet and muddy. But as she held it up, she could see the light shine behind it.
Who were you little skull? Who did you belong to?
She examined it closely. It had appeared to be intact. She held it in her hands, rotating it around. She ran her hand along the cranium, brushing the mud off. “Who were you in life?” she asked. “What was your mission?”
*****
And then she was jolted back to the present.
In her dark bedroom.
The door to her bedroom swung open as she opened her eyes. How long had she been sleeping? She swung her legs to the floor and she stood. Looking up at a tall, shadowy figure in the door, she took several cautious steps backwards, towards her little window. A tall man dressed in a dark suit looked down at her. His face was plastered with an enormous frown. “Come with me, little girl!”
His eyes were wide and flaring as he
lunged forward, reached down and grabbed her shoulder. She cried out as he dragged her across the room, out into the hallway, and into the living room.
“No!” She felt tears well up in her eyes. Father was still lying on the floor in a pool of fresh, bright red blood. It was not a dream, it was real. She could still smell the gun powder in the air. She turned and buried her face in the man’s side. “No! Daddy! I thought it wasn’t real!”
The man tightened his grip and pulled her away. “No, come with me!” He dragged her across the room to the front door as she turned her head around and looked at her Father’s body. And then she was dragged away. She felt a powerful, muscular set of arms wrap around her, and hoist her off the floor. Her tiny hands fell with her arms to her sides, and she saw the horror: daddy was on the floor. His eyes were wide open and his face was motionless.
She screamed and buried her head in the strange man’s shoulder. “Daddy! Daddy! Where have you gone?!”
Oh Father, why have you abandoned me?
*****
The father of the little girl, Dion Arnette, was buried the following Saturday in a small, plain wooden coffin.
The townsfolk had taken a collection at the Church throughout the week. A small table was set outside the doors which led into the atrium; several of the ladies talked with parishioners as they exited after the services. Some gave.
Most did not.
The ladies spent days sitting in the chairs. But with Dion’s reputation – of which word had traveled through the groups throughout Paris – had led to many saying “no, thank you” and walking past the charity table.
The little girl stood and watched the service conclude and saw the two ladies, sitting side by side, as the congregation filed out the doors and to the outside. She turned away as she heard the approach of a car.
A hand, in white gloves; an open palm reached out and she slowly placed her hand in the other.
She looked up.
The woman’s hair blew with the passing wind as she fumbled through her purse. She pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and inserted one into a long, slender filter.
She placed the cigarette filter in her mouth and held it as she dropped her purse to the ground. She reached up to hold her hat down as a strong gust of wind blew through.
The sun, which shone from behind, cast a shadow on the woman’s face, but it was a familiar face. “Come with me, little Delia. Poor sweet little girl. We must go bury your father. It’s time to go. Pick up my purse for me, please.”
The woman led Delia across the parking lot. As they approached the car, she tugged on the woman’s sleeve. “Auntie Thelma?”
The woman turned around.
She looked down at Delia and smiled. Her face still appeared to be in a shadow in the bright sunlight. “Yes Delia?”
“Do you think daddy went to hell?”
Her mouth dropped open and her hands fell to her sides. “Why do you speak of such things, Delia? How could you think of such a horrid thing? Now shush and get in the car!”
The car ride was spent in silence as Auntie Thelma puffed on her cigarette. Delia could see her eyes in the rearview mirror as she looked up, and several times, made eye contact with Auntie Thelma, where they each would instantly look away. Delia was brought to the graveside services in a small, black car which pulled up as the mourners were gathering at the graveside. She stepped out of the back door and watched the people gathering amidst rows of small, white folding chairs.
The sun shined that morning – the warming rays filtered through the trees as her breath clouded out from her mouth as she exhaled.
The chill of the winter air had not left, although it was the era when the sunlight was warm and the shade had a chill. Rows of tiny plastic chairs lined the grass, as a small crowd of people huddled in coats and jackets.
But when she opened her eyes, she saw the many faces.
There were the faces of her lineage; the men and woman who had always seemed so familiar to her were present.
She had only seen them a handful of times in the short period of her life thus far; mostly at gathering such as this one. The group of the older generation mingled and chatted amongst each other, blocking her view. Some of the ladies reached up and held their hats down as the intermittent gusts of wind passed through.
During that time, she did not move.
She stood several feet away from the gathering, and watched them, as they nodded their heads in conversation.
And dabbed their eyes with wadded up handkerchiefs.
The ground still felt frozen.
There was no snow; yet the spring thaw hadn’t quite begun. It was the time of year when the mornings were wintry and the afternoons gave a glimpse of the coming warmth.
She looked down at her feet.
She was wearing the dark blue saddle shoes that Mother had always liked on her. And the blue stockings. She looked up at the others again. The men wore black suits, some dark blue; the ladies in conservative, dark colored dresses. As they had mingled amongst each other, it seemed as if she were invisible.
She placed her hands over her eyes and stood in front of the gathering.
The space between her index finger and middle finger let a sliver of light through; she could see the blues and pale hues of the daylight.
She widened the gap and she looked at the adults. The coffin was being carried by six tall men. A small, plain brown wooden casket, nothing fancy. For he had very little money in the end anyway.
And then she bent down, and unbuckled the clasp on her shoe. She straightened herself out, reached her foot forward and wiggled the shoe off her foot. It fell in the grass. She looked up at the others, and they continued. Eyes were closed, as tissues dabbed at cheeks.
Hugs were exchanged.
She could hear sobs on shoulders.
But the feeling – so distant, so vulnerable; so seemingly insignificant – overwhelmed her as she looked up towards the sky. The sun was shining directly down on her, for she had to shield her eyes; the clouds meandered by. She looked back down, through the throngs of people, and saw the casket. She moved forward, unnoticed, as the others cried and spilled into each other’s arms around her.
She stopped just at the edge of the rows of chairs and looked down at the small, wooden coffin. “Who are they crying for?” she asked, never taking her eyes off of the coffin. “They certainly aren’t crying for you. Maybe they’re crying out of relief that you’re finally gone?” Fresh cut flowers surrounded the grave. The chatter amongst the adults was distant and inaudible behind her.
She paused and looked up towards the sky.
“I have failed you,” she said. “Haven’t I?”
She looked up to the heavens at the rolling clouds, and back towards the sun. She stared directly into the light. The clouds parted across the sunlit sky, and she covered her eyes with her hands. A warm, wet tear streamed down her cheek.
She closed her eyes and hung her head.
She could remember the light from before.
It had been the light which had once surrounded her.
In the realm where time had never existed, nor would it ever. Where she felt a determined happiness, a love, and fervent embrace. She covered her face with her hands as her tears flowed through her fingers.
“You gave me one task,” she said, shaking her head. “You sent me to protect a monster. And with that one single task, I have failed.”
She shrieked and screamed up towards the sky, shaking her fists. “Why did you give me this assignment?!”
Several of the others rushed to her side.
“Oh dear…” Auntie Thelma shook her head and put her arms around the little girl, and she leaned against her aunt. “Oh dear, sweet, Delia. Our little girl has lost her father. Come cry into Auntie Thelma’s shoulder my sweet little one…”
Auntie Thelma picked her up and carried her away from the casket, as she continued her stare up towards the sky. She glared.
But the sky did not an
swer.
Still, without an audible response, there was a feeling that washed over her as Auntie Thelma carried her away. It was something that she had felt deep within her soul.
Like her sense of intuition, which, as a child, would be underdeveloped.
But she felt the feelings that a normal child would not have the ability to decipher: that she still did the right thing. That she completed her mission, no matter how abhorrent the subject may have been. She saw the clouds, but the light still filtered through. She followed the plume, down, and further towards her, and saw it touch her arm.
She could feel the warmth. “Is that how you speak with me? In feelings?”
Auntie Thelma stopped walking. “What did you say, Delia?”
But Delia did not answer Auntie Thelma, for she was still looking at the cascading light; the warm, inviting light that touched her, that made her feel the way that she did.
And the next assignment was still to come.
*****
Later that same evening, Delia lay on her bed, her face buried in her pillow, her arms crossed before her. The pillow was damp. She heard Auntie Thelma’s footsteps approach, in the old, familiar way her shoes would clap along the hardwood floor.
Thunder crashed overhead and rain fell, and pelted against the windowpane.
“Delia, you must eat some dinner,” she said. “You need some strength. You’re a growing little girl.”
Delia turned around and looked up. “The darkness is returning, Auntie. I can feel it. I’ve failed God. I failed in what he called me here to do. But now, I know that I will be given another mission. Soon. I can tell. It’s coming close.”
Auntie Thelma stopped and stared at Delia. Her mouth had dropped open. “What did you say?”
The glow of the light caused Auntie Thelma to remain in a shadow. She bent down forward and scooped up little Delia. “Now how do you speak of such things? You speak like an adult when you are just a child! Are you in mourning? Do your tears still flow? Can I rock you in the chair over there?”