the
gray dawn. The air is chilled but warming, and the birds are waking up. I can
see so much farther then I’m supposed to; can read the license plate of the
battered truck puttering into the McDonald’s drive thru.
I realize I don’t know where we are. Still in Connecticut? I
sniff the air and receive a heavy bouquet of scents I cannot place. The
noises—traffic, birds beating their wings overhead, the McDonald’s drive thru
speaker crackling—all blur and blend and beat at me like a thousand fists
knocking upon a door out of unison.
“Wait for it,” Gabe says. He is leaning back on his elbows.
I try to push away the discordant stimuli, but this only increases my awareness
of Gabe’s energy next to me. I could reach over, snatch away that vibrant blue.
Instead, I study his hat. The thing might have been white some decades ago.
The rim is frayed. The symbol on the crest is worn away, almost unintelligible.
It looks like a salmon-colored S with a green triangle over it.
“The boy I was with last night,” I say and can’t finish.
Gabe looks up at me. “It’s a lot to take in. We don’t have
to talk about it now.”
“What am I? What did that man do to me? I killed a fucking
puppy yesterday.”
“Yeah.” Gabe sits up and scratches his cap. “The kid you
were with. Boyfriend?”
I nod.
Gabe looks away into the distance. “He’s dead. I checked for
a pulse. The angel was trying to take you. Your boyfriend got in the way.”
“Oh.” I wait a while for this to set in. Ryan is gone.
Avalon is gone. Happiness is gone. But I am here. Not me, monster me is here.
Curved-horns-puppy-devouring me is sitting on this roof thinking about jumping
off because I’m too scared and too tired to come up with an option better than
concrete blood art.
“Why…” I take a breath. My voice is coming back. “Why did
you call him an angel?”
Gabe looks at me then away quickly. His hands fiddle with
nothing. “That’s what they call themselves. Big egos. Way big.” He licks his
chapped lips. “You see, angels aren’t exactly the Precious Moments figurines
society likes to think. In the Bible, angels are God’s warriors. They smite his
enemies. Lots of times they disguise themselves as humans, but they’re
something else. Terrible and strong. Super humans. That’s what these angels are
too, but they’re not working for any God.”
“Where did they come from? Outer space?” I’m not sure if
this is a joke until Gabe laughs.
“Nah, it’s all science. Evil genius, Frankenstein science,
and…” He stops and looks at me. “You know, it’s kind of our policy to never
talk about this.”
“Tell me.”
“It’ll sound crazy.”
I am pushing my palms flat against the concrete roof. Hard.
Keeping them there, because what I really want to do is latch onto Gabe’s
energy field or aura or whatever it is and drain him.
“I’ll keep an open mind,” would have been a clever thing to
say. What I manage is, “just tell me.”
Gabe keeps staring at me. I can’t imagine what I must look
like right now, but evidently it evokes enough pity that he says, “Gary Cook.
He created the angels. He was a scientist.”
“What, like a mad scientist?”
“No, not at all. The opposite, actually.” His eyes come up
to meet mine, and there is no humor in them.
“You know how they say the road to Hell is paved with good
intentions?” he says softly. “Gary Cook was the poster child for good
intentions gone bad. Thing is, he looked at this world and saw all the heaps of
suffering everyone was going through. The hunger, the sickness, the petty
violence, and he decided to do something about it.”
“By mixing up monsters in his lab?”
“He came up with this idea. Pretty fucking brazen actually.”
Gabe takes in a swill of breath and lets it out long and slow like he needs
some time to figure his next words. “Dr. Cook decided to make angels.”
He can’t actually be serious…except that he
gray dawn. The air is chilled but warming, and the birds are waking up. I can
see so much farther then I’m supposed to; can read the license plate of the
battered truck puttering into the McDonald’s drive thru.
I realize I don’t know where we are. Still in Connecticut? I
sniff the air and receive a heavy bouquet of scents I cannot place. The
noises—traffic, birds beating their wings overhead, the McDonald’s drive thru
speaker crackling—all blur and blend and beat at me like a thousand fists
knocking upon a door out of unison.
“Wait for it,” Gabe says. He is leaning back on his elbows.
I try to push away the discordant stimuli, but this only increases my awareness
of Gabe’s energy next to me. I could reach over, snatch away that vibrant blue.
Instead, I study his hat. The thing might have been white some decades ago.
The rim is frayed. The symbol on the crest is worn away, almost unintelligible.
It looks like a salmon-colored S with a green triangle over it.
“The boy I was with last night,” I say and can’t finish.
Gabe looks up at me. “It’s a lot to take in. We don’t have
to talk about it now.”
“What am I? What did that man do to me? I killed a fucking
puppy yesterday.”
“Yeah.” Gabe sits up and scratches his cap. “The kid you
were with. Boyfriend?”
I nod.
Gabe looks away into the distance. “He’s dead. I checked for
a pulse. The angel was trying to take you. Your boyfriend got in the way.”
“Oh.” I wait a while for this to set in. Ryan is gone.
Avalon is gone. Happiness is gone. But I am here. Not me, monster me is here.
Curved-horns-puppy-devouring me is sitting on this roof thinking about jumping
off because I’m too scared and too tired to come up with an option better than
concrete blood art.
“Why…” I take a breath. My voice is coming back. “Why did
you call him an angel?”
Gabe looks at me then away quickly. His hands fiddle with
nothing. “That’s what they call themselves. Big egos. Way big.” He licks his
chapped lips. “You see, angels aren’t exactly the Precious Moments figurines
society likes to think. In the Bible, angels are God’s warriors. They smite his
enemies. Lots of times they disguise themselves as humans, but they’re
something else. Terrible and strong. Super humans. That’s what these angels are
too, but they’re not working for any God.”
“Where did they come from? Outer space?” I’m not sure if
this is a joke until Gabe laughs.
“Nah, it’s all science. Evil genius, Frankenstein science,
and…” He stops and looks at me. “You know, it’s kind of our policy to never
talk about this.”
“Tell me.”
“It’ll sound crazy.”
I am pushing my palms flat against the concrete roof. Hard.
Keeping them there, because what I really want to do is latch onto Gabe’s
energy field or aura or whatever it is and drain him.
“I’ll keep an open mind,” would have been a clever thing to
say. What I manage is, “just tell me.”
Gabe keeps staring at me. I can’t imagine what I must look
like right now, but evidently it evokes enough pity that he says, “Gary Cook.
He created the angels. He was a scientist.”
“What, like a mad scientist?”
“No, not at all. The opposite, actually.” His eyes come up
to meet mine, and there is no humor in them.
“You know how they say the road to Hell is paved with good
intentions?” he says softly. “Gary Cook was the poster child for good
intentions gone bad. Thing is, he looked at this world and saw all the heaps of
suffering everyone was going through. The hunger, the sickness, the petty
violence, and he decided to do something about it.”
“By mixing up monsters in his lab?”
“He came up with this idea. Pretty fucking brazen actually.”
Gabe takes in a swill of breath and lets it out long and slow like he needs
some time to figure his next words. “Dr. Cook decided to make angels.”
He can’t actually be serious…except that he
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