9. Angel

9

ANGEL

" A ngel, my gift, my godsend. Wake up."

My eyes snap open.

I'm cold.

But then again, I've been cold ever since I can remember.

Not that I can remember much.

The first thing I remember is the cold. Then light. Blinding light.

Then pain. Lancing through my arm, my side.

Darkness came again.

Then more pain, duller this time, masked in a haze of echoing noise. A voice.

When I awoke again, I felt thirsty. I drank the water in the jug beside me. It never occurred to me at the time that someone had to have put it there.

That I should think about those things.

Worry about those things.

After that, I rise. Slowly, so slowly.

Stiffness keeps me from moving much. Until I make it to my feet.

The old shack is nothing much more than a lean to. I leave it behind.

And I start walking.

The mountain road I found in the first hour must lead somewhere. And despite my exhaustion, I feel the need to be somewhere.

To go. Move forward.

To find something.

No idea what that might be…

It's tied to anger. Rage. An ache in my chest.

So I channel that feeling, those emotions that I have no clue what to do with, into fuel. To take another step on my throbbing feet, wearing the clothes I found by my bed when I woke up.

The next rise seems miles ahead, but I plod on, the fresh mountain air drying my sweat, cooling my skin.

That breeze sings to me through the trees.

Almost reminding me of a voice.

Every time I try to find it, it scampers away into the recesses of my mind. Because something is terribly wrong with my brain.

And a hunger in my very soul drags me forward.

It burns in my blood, through my veins.

Which for the first time, I notice as I pause to scratch my arm, stand out, dark against my skin.

Like there's something sickly inside me.

"There is. It's your lust, your greed. Your sin," a hiss sounds behind me, and I spin, my breath suddenly labored, my skin crawling. Cold sweat slathers me from head to toe.

So I run.

Whatever is chasing me, harassing me, follows close behind. Watching me.

Hunting me.

"Give in."

"Give up."

"Find what you need. And take it ."

"Yes, child. You are broken. Embrace it."

I run for miles. For hours.

Until I'm stumbling, my feet blistered, bleeding through my socks. Until I'm collapsed against a tree near an embankment, gasping and sobbing into my hands.

There is no escape.

Only fear. Hate. Longing.

But for what? I do not know.

Until I hear the car, the echoes of the motor ricocheting around me, surging a panic through my chest, awakening the need to run again.

Only I cannot.

I'm weak. Tired. Starving.

The bright blue sedan, and somehow I know what it's called, comes into view, around the bend in the road ahead of me. At first, I think it won't stop. That the driver won't notice me.

When the car slows, however, I don't move.

I just sit there, staring at the glare on the window.

It glides down, revealing a woman.

Beautiful. With kind eyes.

She watches me, sees what a mess I am, and I know she will drive on.

Instead, she opens the door, stepping from the car and approaching me. Cautiously, she crouches down, resting a tentative hand on my knee.

"You poor thing. Do you need?—"

"Yes…" I grate out between chattering teeth. It's so fucking cold. All the time.

"Then come with me. I'll get you food. Get you cleaned up."

And somehow, I know that she will. That she will take care of me as only she can. Because hers is the voice that puts the others to rest. Like smooth honey, a balm on my wounds.

Even as the worms wriggle their way into my pores at the sound of that voice, like fire and ice, vying for sensory dominance.

It's too easy to let it soothe. To let her lead me to the car.

"What is your name, child?"

I am not a child, but I want to be hers.

"I don't know."

"You're just like a traveler in the old stories, in the Good Book. Like an angel sent to test my mercy and keep me on the straight and narrow."

I nod, unsure of what she means, but so grateful for her kindness. For her voice, telling me what I need to do, what I need to hear. When she passes me a bottle of liquid, I do not hesitate, gulping down the cool, refreshing drink.

And like her voice, it calms my raging spirit.

Satiating my thirst. Quelling my hunger. Silencing the moaning voices, the gnashing teeth that still assail me from the shadows.

"Then we will call you Angel." The woman reaches over, cupping my face, pinning me with a look that makes me want to cry. That makes me want to scream.

"Angel?" I ask, my lip quivering.

"Yes," she murmurs, cranking the old car into gear and heading off down the darkening mountain road. "My avenging angel of death."

"Do I know you, Miss?" I slur, unsure of the last comment, if I heard it at all.

"No, I don't think we have ever met, not really." She smiles at this like it's some private jest.

"What do I call you, then?"

"You may call me Matron. If you'd like."

And I find that I do like it very much. That it meets some deep, primal hurt in my soul. So I relax, for the first time in days. I can't help myself.

The drive lulls me into a doze when I realize we've stopped.

I also realize that I am having trouble moving. Lethargy drags at my limbs, my eyelids.

"Matron… what's going on?'

"Nothing, dearest. We just had to stop for a break. So I can give you your medicine."

Before I can react, or look, I feel the sting of the needle at my neck.

Followed by red-hot, searing, heavenly fire in my veins.

"He's damaged beyond repair," a deep, arrogant voice croons.

"He's perfect." A softer, lilting giggle.

"Yes, he is. And he is ours."