AngelFire

by Luke Valen

  “Hey, asshole, what’s your problem!” The now wet bag of dirt—the mud bag—yelled.

  So the space monkey can talk.

  “I asked you a question, asshole!” The guy moved closer as Chase held me where I stood.

  “You’re my problem, bud,” I said, trying to wrestle free. “You jocks think you can get away with anything just because you throw a ball around.”

  The fire inside was returning.

  Briefly, I looked over at Abigail. I saw the way she was looking at me. A sense of fearful compassion came from her eyes.

  These two weren’t worth it. “You know what? You’re not worth my time,” I said, breaking free of Chase’s grip.

  I turned to leave. Dirtbags. Not but a second later, all I can remember was something hard hitting me in the back of the head and my face bouncing off the ground. Pieces of a broken beer bottle scattered around my face.

  “I say when you can leave,” Dirtbag said, standing overhead. “Now get up.”

  The room burst into excitement.

  “Get up,” a deep voice echoed in my mind, silencing the cheers of the crowd, as I flashed to a bright place—too bright—so bright I couldn’t see.

  It spoke again. “Get up.”

  The brightness vanished. My mind was floating in darkness. I quickly opened my eyes, and the sound of the hollering animals returned.

  Feet. All I could see was feet.

  Get up, I told myself.

  “I said get up,” the kid said again, grabbing at my jacket.

  Nobody touches my jacket.

  In one swift motion, I jumped to my feet. Just as I did, he was ready with a fast right hook. This time I was ready, too. Something was different. I could see his hand coming at my face, as if it had been recorded and played into slow motion. Grabbing his fist, a gasp came from the crowd. His eyes: bewildered. My eyes: bewildered.

  Throwing him across the room was easy work. His body felt as light as a feather.

  Her eyes flashed into my mind.

  He slammed into the wall with such great force that a human-sized hole appeared where there had once been a complete living room. Dirtbag’s legs dangled from inside the hole, not moving. The animals were silent, observing the damage.

  I think I can leave now.

  The silence of the crowd was broken by hysteria as people began to scream and shout, running in every direction to escape, in fear they had just witnessed a murder. How did I…

  A broken bottle entered between the caged bars of my ribs with brute force. I could feel every inch of it ripping through my body.

  “AHHHH!” I let out a bloodcurdling cry as the bottle slid from the depths of my body, spewing scarlet red blood as if a faucet was turned on inside me.

  I had forgotten about Chase—he must have been pissed I’d ruined his party, not to mention the crater I’d created in his parents’ cabin.

  I dropped to my knees in pure agony only to get pummeled by his annoyingly meaty fists.

  “Stop it!” Her voice came piercing through the chaos. “Stop it, Chase. You’re going to kill him!”

  Kids were running around, left and right in a rampant madness. Like buzzing bees whose hive had been attacked.

  At this point, I was getting my face pounded like raw meat on a butcher’s table as I lay bleeding on the ground. Cheap shot.

  “Chase, stop it! Stop!” Abigail pulled at his arm.

  Through all the havoc, I looked up with swollen eyes and noticed a scrawny, four-eyed kid with his video camera. So captivated by all the action that was taking place he had decided to record it, rather than I don’t know, HELP. What a jerk.

  I knew this kid—how did I know him?

  —§—

  My mind flashed to nine years old. It was a bright spring day in a local neighborhood.

  I had fallen off a bike that I lifted from some kid who’d taken my lunch the day before. That’s when Four Eyes came running from his house where he’d been playing catch with his dad.

  “Hey, are you okay?” the kid asked. “I saw you fall. That looked pretty bad. You’re bleeding.”

  He was there on both knees with a hand on my shoulder.

  I looked down. My knees were scraped and ingrained with asphalt and dirt. Ouch.

  “Here, let me help.” He ran back inside and came out moments later with a towel and a Band-Aid. “Here.” He helped clean my knees, bandaging them up. “My name is Bryon. That’s my dad.” He pointed to the man standing in the yard, watching proudly as his boy helped some helpless child. I watched as he smiled widely at his dad.

  Before the kid could turn back around, I was gone.

  I didn’t need any friends.

  —§—

  Bryon. That’s his name—I knew I’d known this kid. He probably didn’t remember me. Or maybe he did? Maybe he held a grudge all these years for running off on him after he’d tried to help me. Maybe that’s why he was recording my imminent death with no signs of helping. Look at him, standing there in his Vans, blue jeans, and pink salmon shirt. Still as geeky as I remember.

  This time he would let me bleed.

  My face began to feel like a pumpkin, swollen and fat. Blinding migraines swept like waves with each pump of the old heart.

  The sight of blue and red lights painted the room. Sirens on top of screaming teens tore through my ears. Blood covered my face and spewed from my side. The pain was unbearable, even considering the adrenaline that pumped through my veins like a powerful hydrant. Someone had called the cops. Chase must have been scared off by the sight of the police cars because my face was no longer bouncing off the floor.

  “Agh.” I attempted to move.

  Looking up, I saw her. Kneeling right next to me, just staring. Her eyes were even more beautiful up close. I had hoped to see her on better terms—this was the last way I’d wanted to meet.

  Scratch that. Yelling at a seemingly imaginary creature and being beat down by two worthless punks hadn’t really crossed my mind in the line of scenarios leading up to meeting Abigail.

  “Fun party, huh?” I slurred out of a bleeding mouth and swollen lips, trying with all my might to crack a smile.

  Fun party—that’s it? That’s all I could come up with? Idiot.

  “You’re really hurt,” she said with the most angelic voice I had ever heard. Maybe it was the ringing in my ears, or maybe I had never heard it this close before, yet it was as if her voice alone had begun to heal my soul.

  “I’m okay,” I said stubbornly as pride filled my being.

  “Let me help you.” She reached for my hand to help me up.

  Something happened. She stopped before she could grab my hand. My wrist, it was on fire again. I looked closer, and so was hers, only different. Hot. Hot—no, not hot…cold.

  My wrist was so cold, it felt hot.

  A blue glow emitted between the proximity of our nearly touching bodies. Scared—confused—I somehow gathered my strength and rose to my feet. Abigail stood quickly, taking a few steps back. I stared, searching her eyes for an answer, as if they could speak to mine.

  Time stood still. It was just her and me, standing there. Alone. I no longer felt pain. I felt…alive. For the first time in my life, I felt a sense of purpose. I felt comfortable. As if we knew each other. Really knew each other. She stood there, staring back at me as if trying to understand what my eyes were saying to hers.

  The blue and red flashing lights our only company. The earthquake in my chest measured a ten on the Richter scale as she moved closer. Less than six inches apart. I could feel her breath on mine. My mind was blank as we stared into each other’s souls.

  Slowly, she reached out for my still-illuminated wrist, curious.

  “Everybody, stay where you are!” yelled a hefty cop.

  I realized a police force was entering the home.

  Time sped up, as if trying to catch up for the stolen time Abigail and I had shared. Everybody was running for their lives, cups and bottles thrown, vases and art brok
en and smashed in the stampede of fleeting teens.

  Distracted by the chaos, she turned, as if aware of where she was once again.

  The pain returned instantaneously. “Agh.” I gripped my side, fighting to stay standing.

  “Who are you?” Abigail asked.

  She must have felt it too.

  “Abby, come on! What are you doing? We have to get out of here!” Cherry loudly interrupted, grabbing Abigail by the arm and dragging her out of the mess of drunken teens and excited cops.

  “Wait! But…” Abigail kept her eyes on me as she was dragged toward the exit.

  “Let’s go!” Cherry pulled harder.

  Taking a second to gather my strength, I took my chance to exit while the cops were busy putting others in cuffs. A slow, painful exit, but an exit nonetheless.

  With everyone making their way out of the whirlwind of madness, the only person who seemed to not be leaving was Bryon. This was magic for him and his cinema camera. The kid actually carried around a fully equipped shoulder rig camera. The Steven Spielberg of AngelFire. I spotted him in the corner of my eye just before I stepped out. Bryon was running throughout the house, putting the camera in as many faces as he could. “Oh man, this is magic. This is going to go viral for sure!” I could hear his excitement.

  “Hey! Get over here! Give me that camera, kid!” A rather large officer grunted as he wobbled toward Bryon, stumbling over bottles.

  “Shit.” Bryon turned the camera on himself “This is Bryon Stockton live from—”

  “Gimme that camera, boy!” The officer could be heard in the background of the video through the mess of yelling teens.

  “I’ve got to go! See you next time, YouTube! Remember to subscribe for more awesome content!” Bryon signed off as he bolted. The officer in pursuit huffed and puffed, but it was no use. The kid was like the Energizer Bunny. Dropping his hands to his knees, the officer digressed. I took my leave.

  The night fell silent as the muffled sound of dragging feet and shutting doors echoed throughout the air. Blue and red lights flashed one at a time through the rows of trees and the hum of the police cars faded away into the night.

  CHAPTER 3

  TWENTY-ONE QUESTIONS

  My breathing was slow and heavy as I limped back to my sanctuary. Streetlamps lit the way for me as if guiding me in my broken state of being, blood dripping from every orifice of my body. How was I even moving—how was I still alive? Keep going. Keep going, I told myself through the overwhelming sense of pain and need for rest. My vision was becoming blurry. The streetlamps began to glow with round halos and rays of light encompassing my sight.

  Almost there, I was almost there. Just one more block. I can see it now. My love, my church, my home, there she stood looking just as beaten and broken as me. So beautiful.

  Each step dragged on. I could feel my strength leaving me. I’m not going to make it, my feet felt as heavy as a ton of bricks. With one final effort I reached for the gate…My fingers grazed the handle just as my physical body had reached its limit. As I hit the ground, I lay there, looking up at the streetlamp that guarded my castle thinking, This is it. This is how I die.

  Darkness swept over me as my eyes began to shut.

  —§—

  “Wake up,” a deep voice echoed in my mind.

  I know that voice.

  “Wake up.”

  “Wake up,” a soft voice now, her voice. Mom?

  “Wake up.” I had to see this voice. With all my might, I struggled to crack open the lids that caged my eyes. Holding tight, as if opening them was inexcusable, I managed to get them open ever so slowly. The warm glow of candlelight awakened my senses. Her silhouette was all I could see against the dancing flames. That smell of old wood and dust was more than comforting as I inhaled life.

  “What happened?” I asked, half alive. Looking around, I felt the familiar rough carpets of safety. I was inside the church. How did I get here?

  “You were bleeding pretty bad,” she said as she came into my proximity of vision. The light now illuminated her flawless face. Abigail.

  “How did you find me here?”

  Wow, she was even more beautiful than before.

  “Like I said, you were bleeding pretty bad.” She pointed to a trail of blood leading in through the great doors and down the narrow aisles of my wooden shelter. Fantastic. Those bloodstains are never coming out of the carpets. “So your name is Dean, right?” she asked bluntly.

  How did she know my name? What is going on? Is that my name?

  “That’s what I’ve been told,” I muttered.

  It actually was what I’ve been told—I’m not sure if that was really my name or if the foster care system assigned me the first name that popped up in the lottery of abandoned baby names.

  Clang!

  A loud metal noise came from the back-right corner of the church where offerings used to be taken.

  “Sorry about that.” An old, raspy voice came from the corner. “I was trying to be as quiet as possible to give you two lovebirds a moment. Guess my old hands ain’t what they used to be.” The skinny old man reached down with one hand on his knee for support and picked up the metal cup. “You know, Dean, you’re going to have to stop coming home in pieces. One of these days, I won’t be here to put them back together.”

  “Uncle Homer.” I pressed up onto one hand, the other still gripping my side. Abigail knelt by my side, looking at the old man. “I didn’t know you were here,” I said painfully.

  “How could you? Your eyes look worse than mine.”

  What a jokester.

  Uncle Homer isn’t actually my uncle. He was just the groundskeeper of the church. Why he has never left, I couldn’t say. But I’m glad he didn’t. He’s been the one person I knew I could always count on. When I first found this place, he tried to help find me a proper home. Though when he saw how bad the system had been treating me—one black eye after the other—he decided to let me stay. So long as I didn’t join a gang, do drugs or any other stupid thing that could get me in trouble, or worse. The man was as skinny as a malnourished skeleton and wore clothes two sizes too big for him. Always a gray button-up shirt buttoned to the very top and tucked into his baggy brown pants. His long, white beard and clean white comb-over seemed to give him a sense of wisdom and class.

  “You know that isn’t going to come out of the carpet, right?” he said, pointing at the bloodstains.

  I gave him a mean, sarcastic glance.

  “You’re lucky your friend came along,” he said. “I wouldn’t have been able to pull you in all by myself in this cold weather.” He pointed his bony finger at Abigail. “Too pretty for your ugly butt,” he mumbled under his breath.

  “What?” I’d heard him. I always did.

  “Nothing,” he said quickly. “Just saying I’ll let you two talk. I’ll go grab some hot water for us.” Uncle Homer waddled off into the old kitchen.

  Turning back to Abigail, our eyes met.

  “I’m Abigail,” she said softly. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Dean. Your uncle is very sweet.”

  Abigail reached to shake my hand. I attempted to do the same…

  “Ahh!” Gripping my side in agony, I couldn’t complete our first formal greeting.

  “Suck it up, you’re going to be just fine.” She pointed to the cut in my shirt pulling it aside. There was nothing there—no gash, no blood.

  “How did you do that?” I asked in disbelief. My eyes saw it, but my mind didn’t know what to make of it.

  “I have always been really good at helping people. My dad wanted me to be a businessperson like him, but I’ve always wanted to be a nurse. It’s always just felt…natural. To help people, that is.”

  Not exactly the scientific answer I was looking for, but it would do.

  “Well, thanks.” Struggling to stand, I forced myself up.

  “Don’t push yourself. You need rest.” Her gentle hand touched mine. The warmth that surged from her hand into my innermo
st being was unreal. As if being touched by a furnace warming me from my very core.

  “I’ll be okay. Thank you for your help.” I quirked my mouth up into a smile. “I can handle myself from here.” I made my way down the aisle as I gripped the splintered pews to support the weight of my body. Good old J.C. stood there front and center. “Hey, buddy, looks like you had a better night than me.”

  Abigail stood. “Who are you talking to?”

  “No one. It’s nothing. Shouldn’t you be getting home now? I’m sure your family is worried.” I stopped, wincing in pain.

  “My dad works late every night. Sometimes he doesn’t even come home. I’ll be okay.”

  I could sense a hint of sadness from the tremble in her voice.

  “Oh, I think you dropped this at the party.” Abigail reached into her pocket and pulled out a tiny leather booklet with the initials “D.M.” carved into the cover.

  “Where did you get that?” I asked frantically.

  “I told you, it must have fallen out of your pocket at the party when you were getting your face beaten in.” She extended it out.

  “Give it here.” I reached for the booklet.

  She quickly pulled it back. “What’s the M stand for?”

  A small sense of frustration came over me. More of an annoyance. “Just give it back.”

  “Well?” she persisted.

  “Michael,” I forced out.

  “Is that your last name?”

  “I guess so. I don’t know. Can I have my book back now?” I reached again for it. She pulled back once again. My patience was wearing thin.

  “Why are you so grabby over this little book?” She folded her stubborn arms. Right around the book.

  “Just give it here, okay? Please.” I put on my nicest smile. Blood still lined my teeth.

  Please? That was the last word I wanted to use at this point.

  “I’m just curious. You seem to be following me around at school.” She smirked a little. “I feel like I have some right to know things about you, too.” Abigail began to unwrap the book.