Young Writers Society

A sharp bell rings in my ear, a signal to go home. However, I can’t help but stare at the ambulance pulling away from me. Then the bell, I can feel them calling me almost, but her heart yearned for me more. They told me before I had left, “Three strikes and you’re out.” I knew this but for some reason I rush to my first impulse. Maybe. . . Just maybe this is all my fault. My heart however has made its own decision, I can’t let her die.

    18 years earlier. . . I sit in a white room, the blinding white kind, with no windows. I’m wearing a dark suit, a pearly white button down, and a blood red tie. A wondrous sight for a plain room, and it happens that this one is. I try to keep my appearance pleasing because, it helps all of the people cope with the fact that they are stone, cold, dead because hey at least they're in heaven. Anyway, today unlike other days that seem to go the same, is different, it’s special. Today is assignment day.

    Every year or so a few, “angles,” as the people call us, (I like to think of us as more of jolly grim reapers), get assigned to Earth. Most of the time to look after a family, or one person if that is the job given, but normally it’s only if you ask. But then, there are little times when you don’t ask, and when this happens it’s normally because the person is more important to humanity alive, then dead. I never opposed the idea of serving a great man in life and after, but then again I never minded paradise ethier. So now as I wait in this mockingly clean room I sit and await to become more or less a body guard, invisible and yet impenetrable. Ready to protect.

    A young looking man came before me, sitting down he tucked his wings, “I address you with great concern, for this human is sometimes reckless and disorderly. It is your job to keep her safe until she reaches her time.” He spoke with a wary tone, which for someone of his stature is very unusual, (angels are known for little to no emotion). Normally from to much interaction with humans, oh! What will become of me? Slowly then he unlatched his jaw, “ her name is Iris Margaret Brookes.”

I didn’t protest when he pushed me towards a glass egg shaped container. I stood inside, uncomfortably, and in seconds I was in a little hospital in New York, it was packed with people. They all looked different, they all seemed sad or anxious. I entered a room That seemed to glow, when I appeared in the delivery room I was just wind, no one noticed or asked questions. 

    The doctor who had been assisting the mother was scared, he reeked of human sadness and the amount of fright was unbearable. The mother soon lost all the blood her body could give. . . then, she saw me. I was blurry but she knew. She called for me with dieing tears. She seemed to say my name, Arael, I would release her from such pain. I set my palm on her chest, stopping her pain emidently her voice tired from crying singing. Soon as did her pain her heart stopped. She would have a very special place in heaven. The father seemed to talk in hysteria, saying, “Bring her back. . .bring her back. . . please,” I felt nothing, as it should be. I followed the doctor who now had Iris in his hands. They rushed her into surgery, but unable to find what was wrong the doctor seemed to give up. I bent hovering over the child and kissed her cheek. She awoke in a cry.

    A small patch of feathers turned black. Every time that I must save her I will slowly turn into a fallen angel. Once you become one there is no returning, the end to our stay is the end of the miracle he gives us. No matter, all I have to do is make sure that I have some left for when I return home. They then will be restored to me. If I fail this however I must stay in this wretched place for the rest of eternity. 

    The years went by quickly, as I saw her grow I noticed more about what made her special. She walked early, she loved to sing and dance. . . I loved watching her sing. She sang of hope and love, even if it had no words. She grew on me fairly quickly. I watched her do homework as her dad should have done, first grade. . ., “wow.” I had whispered. Twelve years had passed. She’s eighteen first of her class, so dismal however, for her father returned home drunk and unforgivable. I had pain for her, so misunderstood. . . such a great mind. So many words I wish I could tell her, she was so smart, so beautiful, so. . . astonishingly brilliant. I sat and thought about her, how my time will be cut short. She is so beautiful in life. . . the confusion of death would corrupt her. The cold wind stole my balance while I stood on the apartment roof, they were several rooms below me, her father had yet again was late, most likely at the bar drinking his sorrows just to come to the realization that it makes him worse. He blames her, Iris, for her mother’s death. Unreasonable, yet it is what drives him.

    Crash, a noise from below, which apartment was it? My heart raced. I heard him in my head, “That girl, that ungrateful girl. Life? Death? It’s all the same, I’ll get her back.” I found him. He smelled of alcohol, and was stumbling about. . . a gun in his sweaty hand. I smelled blood, it was pungent and felt the room quickly. Iris laid there unmoving. . . she had yet to live as she should have. The people below them, they herd instantly. The father held the gun to his head. . . I let him pull that god damned trigger. He hurt me, so he now must go through the agony of death and the confusion of it all. The neighbors call the authorities.

                A sharp bell rings in my ear, a signal to go home. However, I can't help but stare at the ambulance pulling away from me. Then the bell, I can feel them calling to me almost, but her heart yearned for me more. They told me before I left, “Three strikes and you’re out.” I knew this but for some reason I rush to first impulse. I think, maybe. . .just maybe, this is all of my fault. My heart however, has made its own decision. I can't let her die.

             I speed over to the ambulance that tries to streak away, out of my grasp. I grab on and slip inside cold walls. She lays there breathless almost leaving her life. I helped her hold on however. I gripped her sole as if it were my own. Her serenity was life, she needs purpose, and she was my own purpose. With the last of my strength she was whole, and with a swirl of defeat, my wings turned holy black. As I cry at her side, she turns to me and finally. . . She sees. No one but her, her life will be forever and mine at her side, but to my dismay I will forever be dead.