(FINAL) Angel - by Ivan Peterson

“Take care of yourself Mary. You know that I’ll always love you.” There was nothing else on the paper. The note began and ended with those fateful words. “I’ll always love you,” Mary repeated to herself for the fourth time. The black ink was written neatly on a notepad taken from a roadside motel. Beneath the letters, embedded within the paper was a watermark, barely visible after years of age. “Pasco Deluxe Suites,” it read. Mary glanced up with tears glistening in her eyes. A single lamp illuminated the tiny drops that fell from her cheeks and disappeared into the shadowy carpet below. A weight seemed to fall onto Mary as her shoulders slumped and her knees gave way to shock.

A single officer responded to the call, pulling into the trailer park with his lights beaming through the darkness. It was nearing 1:00 AM, and the street was largely deserted except for the silhouette of a stray dog a couple trailers away. The officer stepped from his cruiser and adjusted his belt around his bloated abdomen. His thighs were tight against the fabric of his well-worn pants, and he walked uncomfortably as he ascended the concrete steps to the dented trailer door.

A single knock later and the door opened. A man stood there in a dirty white tank top. His eyes were tired and drooping. Day-old stubble covered his face. Without a word the man stepped away from the door and walked into the trailer. The officer entered slowly, looking around at the dirty carpet and stained couch. His heavy leather boots made dull thudding noises as he walked across the scratched linoleum.

“She’s over there,” the man uttered without emotion, indicating the kitchen door with his dirty hand. The officer looked toward the closed door. A dark red stain crept across the floor underneath it, gleaming with a dark iridescence. “I found her about an hour ago, when I got home from the station.”

“Have you moved her body?” The officer asked solemnly.

“No. She’s exactly how I found her.”

The officer opened the door slowly, creating slight ripples across the hardened surface of the blood pool. A woman’s body lay across the floor; her face smeared red. A girl stood in the corner of the kitchen near the half-opened fridge. She wrapped her slender arms around her trembling body, never releasing the woman’s lifeless form from her gaze.

The girl was young, barely eleven. She stared intensely at the body with a mixture of fear and misery in her wet eyes.

“Get out Mary,” the man said harshly. Mary didn’t react to her father’s demand, and instead backed farther into the corner. “Get out!” he yelled, reaching for his daughter’s frail form. He stepped over his wife’s body and grabbed Mary’s wrist, savagely wrenching her from the kitchen and into the hallway.

The officer ignored Mary and stepped into the room carefully; avoiding the large pool of blood originating from the woman’s wounded neck. “It looks like suicide, Mr. Irwin,” the officer said, reading the crumpled note that had just fallen from Mary’s ghostly hand.

--- --- --- --- ---

It was early in the misty morning. A nearly full moon illuminated the vast expanse of wilderness that crept its way across the land, cradling pockets of human life and lumber mills in its prickly grasp. A single cry echoed through the landscape, causing a ripple of motion across the forest floor. Birds flapped sleepily into the air as the sound cried out again. At the northernmost point of the forest, near a particularly large hill, the trees had been replaced with houses. A mill churned endlessly near the outskirts of the town, releasing a sooty black smoke into the cold air.

A dark form slipped from the shadows between the houses and into the moonlight. The figure walked quickly down the side of the street and out of town. Several hundred yards past the last house, the cloak dropped to the ground, revealing a woman’s slender body. Her hair was blacker than night, even the moonlight seemed to scatter across its glassy surface. She stood there, exposed to the harsh morning air. Her body was opaque against the starry night sky, and she stood unmoving for several minutes as she formed words in her mouth. Sounds escaped her flushed lips only to be caught by the wind and thrown across the town and the neighboring forest in an undulation of echoes and screams. Opening her eyes, she noticed a pink glow taking over the darkness, and she quickly began walking back to the sleeping town of Traehill.

Mary quietly opened the back door of her modest home, stepping carefully across the welcome mat and into the kitchen just as the morning light reached across the vast horizon.

“Where were you?” said a voice as Mary placed her cloak in the closet near the door. She jumped slightly before turning and facing the man standing behind her.

“Clinton. You’re up early. I was just running some errands.”

“At 5:00 in the morning?” Clinton looked at her with anger in his eyes. “You were with him, weren’t you? I know he’s in love with you, and I’ve seen how you look at him in church; your little ‘Angel boy.’”

“I was not! I’ve never even spoken to Clarence.”

“You lying whore!” Clinton spat, slapping Mary across her face with the back of his hand. Mary staggered backward and brought her hands up to her face. The skin where Clinton’s hand hit blossomed into a purplish bruise within seconds. A trickle of blood ran down Mary’s pale jaw where Clinton’s ring cut into her.

“How did you know who I was talking about then?” He asked, raising his hand into the air for a second time.

“Don’t Clinton,” she said with tears in her eyes. “I only love you.”

--- --- --- --- ---

“Don’t Daddy,” Mary said for the third time. “I'm sorry.”

“That’s right you're sorry, and see that you never forget.” The man said with the smell of whiskey and cigarettes on his breath. He released Mary from his grip, letting her fall limply to the floor. She quickly grabbed the torn photo lying on the ground that had caused her father's anger, and huddled in the corner cradling her hurt arm.

Moments later Mr. Irwin left the trailer with a pack of cigarettes and a match booklet. Mary could smell the acrid smoke wafting into the house beneath the door and through the vents. Her eyes began to burn as she pieced the photo back together. Three smiling faces illuminated the worn picture. Her mother and father stood holding hands with her in between them. It was taken years ago on a trip to California, when they were happy. Her mother’s hair was a mess from lying in the sand, and her father’s grin was as wide as his face. Mary saw herself in the center of the picture. Her feet were buried in the sand, toes wriggling furiously. Her face and arms were sunburned, and her dark hair gleamed in the dying light.

“Mom?” Mary said to the picture quietly. “Why did you leave me? What did I do to make you want to die?” Her tears fell onto her lap quietly as she sat waiting for something to happen. “It’s been exactly a year, Mom. I’m twelve today.”

Mary sat on the floor with a stubby pencil and a stray piece of paper. She carefully sketched the form of a woman onto the yellowing sheet. The woman’s arms and legs were obscured by two enormous wings on either side of her body. The wings were as black as pitch and folded across the woman in a powerful embrace. Mary finished the Angel’s hair, leaving it completely white against the dark background. Her face was an emotionless slate, staring into nothingness. A trail of blood issued from her neck, seeping down across her chest and finally disappearing beneath the folded wings.

--- --- --- --- ---

“You poor thing,” Mary said, softly cradling the hurt sparrow against her warm body. “Your wing is broken, and you’re all muddy.” The sparrow squirmed in Mary’s grasp, attempting to free himself and hop away. His once smooth grey underbelly was plastered with a dark muddy residue, and one of his powerful mahogany wings was lying helplessly at the side of his body, snapped by a small stone hurtled through the air moments earlier. A group of boys passed Mary’s crouched body from behind, laughing to themselves. One of them nudged her to the side, causing her to release the sparrow onto the pavement. Her elbow struck the hard black surface, triggering a jolt of pain to travel into her neck and through her upper arm.

Mary gathered her spilled packages as she searched for the injured bird, who had quickly disappeared within the shadows of the nearby alleyway. Mary stood, massaging her sore elbow, and slowly made her way toward a house on the outskirts of town.

A couple of blocks away, Mary saw Clarence across the street. She stopped momentarily and watched him. He was singing something to himself as he strolled along the sidewalk. She noticed his indigo eyes, framed by strong cheekbones and a messy head of light blond hair. “Clinton was right,” Mary said to herself. “He really does look like an Angel.” Clarence looked up momentarily and saw Mary watching him. He grinned widely and waved at her animatedly. She quickly glanced at the ground and began walking toward her house again. He was 20, barely a year older than she was, and they had never spoken.

She entered the front door and deposited her packages on the counter. Clinton sat at the kitchen table. His gaze followed her as she began putting items in the cupboards and the fridge.

“You think I didn’t see, don’t you?” Clinton said after she had finished putting things away. “You’re in love with him. I saw how you looked at him just a second ago.” Mary didn’t reply, and instead began washing the dishes left over from breakfast. “Answer me Mary! I got you out of that hell-hole with your father, and this is how you repay me? All the money I’ve spent and the work I’ve done and you’re in love with someone else.”

“I’ve never even spoken to him, Clinton. He just waved at me.”

“I don’t care what he ‘just’ did. You wanted him to.” Clinton rose angrily, and walked toward Mary.

She backed toward the sink, “No! Clinton,” she said before his strong grip tightened around her wrist.

“You ungrateful witch!” he screamed at her, droplets of saliva spewing onto her face. In a moment he had her black hair in his hand and began jerking her towards the counter. He held her body helplessly, violently ramming her against the edge of the countertop. “You think we don’t hear you at night. The whole town hears you Mary, every single time, screaming for your ‘mother.’ She’s dead because of you Mary; she couldn’t stand to be around you anymore.”

“No,” Mary sobbed, tears streaming down her face.

“She slit her own throat just to get away from you.”

Mary continued to sob, “Clinton, I’m sorry.”

“You’re not sorry. I should never have brought you with me to Traehill; you’re just like my mother: a needy, lying whore.” Clinton grabbed her body and prepared to ram her into the countertop a last time.

“No Clinton, you don’t know what you’re doing.” She paused again, forming her next sentence in her mind. “I’m pregnant.”

Clinton hesitated with Mary’s trembling body still held immobile in his firm grip. “Are you lying to me? Because I swear to God, if you’re are…”

“I’m not Clinton. It’s been nearly five months.”

--- --- --- --- ---

“Come with me Mary; let’s get away.” The man said kindly. He was nearly 27 years old, and spoke with an intensity that instantly drew Mary to him.

“I… I can’t, Clinton. I just barely met you, and I…”

“Yes you can, Mary. Get out of this deadbeat town, away from your deadbeat father. I can see what he does to you Mary,” Clinton said, caressing a long pink scar across her lower jawbone. Mary winced momentarily before continuing.

“He doesn’t mean to, Clinton, he just doesn’t understand.”

“But I understand,” Clinton said. “You’re eighteen. Your father is an angry man. You need freedom.”

“I don’t know,” Mary said softly. “I just don’t know.”

“You don’t have to Mary. My dad basically owns a small town up north. Come live with me. I love you; I’ll take care of you.”

Mary looked into his eyes; they looked like her father’s from the photograph she had kept since her mother’s death seven years ago. Tears filled her own eyes as she quietly replied “all right Clinton.”

--- --- --- --- ---

“Mary! It’s me. Hurry and let me in.” Mary recognized the voice and opened the door. The woman entered hurriedly. “Thank God I’ve made it in time. We need to go right now. Something bad is going to happen.”

“What’s happening,” Mary asked with fear in her voice.

“I’ve seen what my son has done to you.” The older woman said, lifting her own sleeve to uncover a massive bruise on her right upper arm. The center was striated with reddish welts and deep lacerations. “He gets it from his father. I’ve stayed with him until now, mostly for Clinton’s sake. It hasn’t made any difference. I’m leaving Mary, and you’re coming with me.”

“I can’t leave Rachael. If Clinton ever finds me, I’m as good as dead.”

“You’re as good as dead if you don’t leave Mary. He’s drunk, and he found your drawing.” The blood rushed from Mary’s face, creating a stark contrast with her raven hair.

“Oh no,” Mary uttered desolately. She looked at her mother in law for one fearful moment before a different look crossed her face. Grabbing her lower stomach, she bent over. Groaning heavily she grabbed at Rachael’s hand. “Oh No!” she said, breathing heavily, “it’s happening.”

The older woman look stunned for a moment, but then understood. She grabbed Mary’s arm, and carefully guided her to a room in back of the house.

--- --- --- --- ---

A figure lay on the simple bed. The room was in a state of disarray. Flowered wallpaper clung to the walls, creating eerie patterns in the low light. A stained quilt covered the bed, and two bedside tables sat on either side. Clinton walked across the room to the bed where Mary lay; her dark hair was matted and sweaty, clinging to her face and neck. He came closer cautiously, rocking the bed with his foot. Stopping at the side of the bed, he looked into her face and held his palm above her half open mouth. Her breaths came infrequently and shallow.

Clinton watched his helpless wife. His smile was filled with anger and violence, a perversion of the smile Mary fell for nearly a year ago. Clinton bent over her weak body and whispered something into her ear. Clinton’s sticky breath warmed her cheek and neck. She opened her eyes slowly, barely able to see where his eyes and mouth should be. Everything around her was spinning in a convulsion of dull colors and shapes.

A tiny voice came from her exhausted body. “No,” she said weakly.

“Where’s the baby,” Clinton said angrily. “You’ve been lying to me all along. I bet it’s not even mine.”

Mary tried to raise her traumatized body, but fell back down again. “I swear Clinton…”

He cut her off. “I’ve had enough of your ‘promises.’ I know the truth now, and to think, I could have loved you once.”

Mary tried to resist as he roughly pulled her off the bed. Her lower body dragged across the wooden floor, she couldn’t muster the strength to pull her legs underneath her. Clinton coldly dragged Mary’s body from the bedroom and through the house to the back door. Throwing her across his shoulder, he started making his way to the edge of the woods just outside of town. The last glimpses of sun had left the sky, leaving only an orange glow originating somewhere beyond the far horizon. Clouds formed overhead, absorbing the darkness and blotting out the bright stars.

As Clinton neared the edge of town, the shadows stirred beneath a nearby woodshed. Clinton failed to notice a woman standing beneath the eve. Her arms were wrapped around a bundle of blankets containing a baby boy. She pressed the child against her chest and rocked him softly, humming into still damp ear. She stayed only a moment longer, watching her son carry Mary across the landscape. Her eyes filled with salty tears that fell across her face and into the darkness. “There’s your mother,” she said quietly. “It’s my fault. I should have done this earlier. Now, you’re the only one I can save.”

Clinton laid Mary against the sappy trunk of the nearest fir. Mary had regained some of her strength, but was still too weak to offer any resistance. Her hair stuck to her pale skin, and the slow passing breeze ran down her spine in a torrent of uncontrollable shivers.

“Have you ever seen what people can do with an ice pick?” Clinton said, extracting a sharp instrument from his shirt. He held the pick into the air to examine the point, running it over his palm in crisscross motions. “My father used to be a surgeon. He told me of this procedure called a ‘transorbital lobotomy.’ It’s supposed to be very effective.”

Mary’s eyes followed the pick as Clinton passed it between his hands slowly. “Now, if you tell my where the child is, I’ll make this quick.” She didn’t answer. “Well, I guess I have no choice,” he laughed balefully. “I even brought someone to watch,” he said, extracting a folded sheet of paper from his front pocket. “It’s fitting, really. The reason for all of this.” He threw the paper onto the ground in front of Mary, who tentatively picked it up.

An Angel stood on the page, framed in a trail of vines. She remembered spending weeks secretly perfecting it, spending hours alone working only with a pencil. The wings arched up and off of the page magnificently. Each feather individually etched in a mixture of light grays and whites. His muscular arms embraced a woman against his supple body. His wing arched downward and covered her nakedness. Her eyes were closed as she rested against his chest. His young face was handsome, accentuated by strong cheekbones and penetrating eyes. “Clarence,” Mary whispered to herself for a last time. She could barely hear Clinton as her heart beat loudly within her chest.

As her Angel watched, Clinton yanked Mary’s head back by her hair. He took the ice pick and slid it between Mary’s right eyelid, just above her eye. He penetrated the orbit and plunged the cold steel into her frontal lobe. He jerked the pick side to side before extracting the bloody instrument. Mary screamed as the pain hit her with full force. The distant town folk glanced up from their television sets for a moment, before returning their gaze to the flickering boxes in front of them.

A scarlet trail seeped from above Mary’s eye, pooling on her lower eyelashes before streaming down her face like crimson tears. The red stain spread across Mary’s shirt and down her body as Clinton repeated the process on the other eye. She blinked several times, shocked, but still alive. “This operation rarely kills the recipient,” Clinton continued. “Father said it works wonders for behavioral issues. You’ll seem completely normal to everyone in the town. No one will ever suspect anything, and you’ll also never think of cheating on me again. I can assure you of that.”

The pain threw Mary to the ground; and she cradled her head with her two hands. She looked at the picture lying on the forest floor. The picture brought a vague memory to her mind, but the pain drove it out quickly. She looked around; her still bloody eyes were vacant and lifeless. Clinton smiled at her confusion, and offered her his hand. “Were am I?” She asked, cringing at the loudness of her own voice.

“You’re safe now, Mary. You’ve just been in a horrible accident.” Clinton replied, caressing her dirty hair.

“Where’s my mother?” She paused, looking down at her bloodied shirt, “Why am I bleeding?”

- Please still comment if you have a free moment; I really want to know if you liked it? Hated it? Or are ambivalent? Also, the "Ice-pick lobotomy," is a real psychotherapy that thousands of people with so called emotionally-derived behavioral issues (i.e. mental retardation, hyperactivity, suicidal tendencies, schizophrenia, etc.) underwent at the hands of their physician during part of the 20th century. It was extremely effective at essentially clearing someone's personality/desires/former interests completely from their consciousness, making them into docile and uninterested shells of themselves, and thus was seen as a relatively easy cure for many types of behavioral issues. Some died, but most lived for many years afterward. I didn’t know how to bring this information into the story without making it “history lesson-ish,” so I just hinted that it was an actual thing, and left it at that.