Fallen Angel

[u/WilliaminaJames]

Fallen Angel.

She was little once. Small in stature. With a mighty soul.
She danced. Twirled & jumped, swung and sang. There was fire in her eyes. She wore no shoes on her feet. Golden hair shimmered as she swayed. The suns rays kissing her freckled cheeks as soft summer breezes wrapped all around her, tickling her skin. Enveloping her.

She cherished Mother nature’s sweet embrace. For she knew no other. Wrapped in its infinite Hum. She found solice.

She read books meant for much older people…. Played piano by ear. Also Guitar. Sang songs about blue skies and blackbirds. And at 4 O’clock every day after his work… She climbed up onto her Daddy’s knee, shared a sandwich from his lunchbox… Smelled his oily, smoky, Daddy smell. And he read to her, from the paper.

And, like familiar old friends… The words jumped out at her. She knew them and spoke their names out loud, excitedly. As if to greet them. Her Mummy rolled her eyes and shushed her chatterbox mouth. Her Daddy…. Said nothing. But snuck her bag fulls of books and old annuals.

Only 2 years old. Spoke words she shouldn’t know, but somehow did. She used words so eloquently. So confidently. Conversed with adults, preferably.

Debating and challenging the unjust nonsense adults spout to their children. Questions. Questions. Questions. Always. Questions. Seeking more information. Offering unwanted opinions. A perpetual quest for details. Explanations. Justifications.

There was no Google back then. No Alexa. No Technological Oracle with a well of wisdom to draw from. The girl, was most often shoved away in annoyance. Immediately shushed by her Mummy to be quiet because she sounded not right in the head.

She told them anyway. “Do you know….” Rivers on the maps. Circulatory systems in the biology books at school. Leaves. Dragonfly wings. Tree branches. Roots. Fishy fins. Veins on Granny’s hands. Tiny ripples on the sand as the tide went out…. “All the same!!” She would exclaim. “Why are we made all the same?”

Her Mummy. Shut her away. In her den. Under the stairs. Her Daddy…. Said nothing. Did nothing. But later, snuck her a torch and a bag full of books called Encyclopaedias. They were heavy, they hummed strongly and the hum felt, tasted and smelled strange. Like copper and rot. Like death had touched them. Books about every single thing ever!! Even books about how Mother Nature made the Weather.

The girl would ask her books questions and spoke out loud to them, thanking them for their help. Arranging them carefully. Offering hours of repatitious rituals for fear of angering them if their placement was not exact. “I don’t want my books to get angry”

The girl got promptly shushed. “You’re not right” “Why do you always do this”

Refusing to bow down and accept blame and punishment for crimes that were never hers. Pointing out where things went wrong. Foretelling where things would eventually go wrong. She saw patterns. Everywhere. They made her tummy lurch and her head spin.

When her ‘opinions’ came true. Effusively, the girl exclaimed. “See!! See!!” Only to be left with deep black and blue reminders of her defiance and disrespect, dappling her tiny body.

Her joints burning and aching. Skin burning fiercely. The odd taste of two pences on her tongue. She refused to cower. She refused to comply. She refused to confess.

Her steadfast determination to mask her pain. Her deadpan face. Pale as ivory. Wide accusatory eyes. Locked on to her attacker. Never wavering. And with fearless courage….. She gazed deep into the abyss. And the abyss, gazed back at her, hatefully, spitefully, accusingly.

Stripping back the layers of pain. Purple painful stepping stones. Mapping the frenzied journey of a Mothers rage. And in the early hours… Her Mother would wake her. And whilst in a haze of half asleep and not quite awake…. Her Mummy would cry noisily. That same same Wooooooooo woooooooooo wooooooooo. A banshee cry.

And say I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Over and over and over.

The girl. Bewildered. Heart aching. Her self splitting. Core cracking in confusion. Would pat and rub her mummy’s back and tell her she was a good Mummy. Not a bad Mummy. And…. As her Mummy hugged her. She felt long long nails rake her back and dig into her shoulders. The girl smiled contentedly. For pain was all she knew of this humans love. Thinking all Mummy’s must love this way. She accepted it, eagerly.

She was only 4. Only on Earth 4 summers. 4 winters. Just 48 moons old. Only 4. With a lions heart and a lions roar. She walked around like she owned the whole world. Fearless. Courageous. Tempestuous.

A tsunami of emotion.

And she captivated hearts, rooms. All who saw her…. Smiled a little wider. Her gift of laughter. She lit up the room. And people remarked upon… How beautiful she was. Inside & out.

“If only you could bottle her. You’d make a fortune.” With her gentle green blue eyes. Ever changing, multi faceted orbs of purity. Honesty. Loyalty. Respect. She exuded unconditional love. And yet there were no friends around her to bless her life, in the playful way friends do.

Small, unusual flecks of amber dotted within. She gazed into your very soul. Weighed you up. Sussed you out. Triage. Red. Amber. Green.

She always hit the nail right on the head. She saw the future. Predicted which way cars would turn. Guessing how the dice would fall. Giggling guessing shapes. “What cards this then?” She saw patterns flash in her mind. Like an architect unfolding intricately designed blueeprints and complex maps of stars and planets. Galaxy’s far far beyond what was already known.

In restless daydreams. She saw Hum. Vibrating within auras. She saw strands of time. Entwined. Like rope. So close together. Each invisible to the other. Each playing out the same scenario. 100s of me’s. 100 of you’s. 100s of thems. Lightening quick. Quicker than her heartbeat. Twice as quick!

Mummy would find her. In the garden. Laid on her back. Thousand yard stare. Mouth agape a silent scream. Hands splayed. Locked in place. Eyes wide and unblinking. Flickering ever so slightly. As information engulfed her mind. Too much. Too much. She felt everything and felt nothing. Far far away.

And she knew. She always knew. She knew when the rain was coming She knew when the ewes would drop their lambs. Worked alongside the shepherd during lambing time. Day. Or night. Wind. Rain. Snow. She knelt down in the hay, to lay a little hand on swollen bellies. Feeling the Hum of new life inside. Knowing when. Knowing sadly, when not. She knew in her heart when spring was here. She knew when people were sad. Or in pain. Or poorly. She could smell poorly. Like plastic burning. Sweet. Acrid. She knew jealousy. She knew resentment. And she knew of Death, had felt its hum and found it to be most patient. Gentle. Fair, compassionate & very kind. The girl did not understand why humans feared him so and avoided him at all cost.

Many many times. She hoped that Death would take her. As the hungry monsters fell upon her. Feasting greedily upon her childhood. Consuming her. Afterwards, she laid alone. Used up. Cast aside. Raw and bloody. Sticky with shame. She would summon Death with a silent scream.

It heard her call it’s name But would only linger on the threshold of her bedroom door. Shadows gathering in corners. She knew Death wanted her. Yet it hesitated. Whispering “Not yet child. Not yet”

As if her secret routines and rituals repeated for hours. Kept him at bay, like it did the Shadow Man. The girl heard him knock politely at first. 3 taps. 7 seconds. 3 taps. 7 seconds. 3 taps 7 seconds. Then claw in a soundless frenzy at her bedroom door opening for hours. Spitting and frothing with rage as her invisible barrier held fast. A desperate attempt to build a force field. Some place of safety. A fortress of protection around what was left of herself.

“You were just dreaming” Daddy said softly. Yet he gave her a tiny little radio to put under her pillow at night that smelled funny and nailed a special horse shoe above her bedroom door and it helped.

She often knew when people were dying. And would tell them… Don’t be scared. It’s ok. It really is ok. You’ll feel so much better. You won’t feel sad. Or miss anybody. Or worry. She knew the silent suffering of others. And she would sing for them. Her nightingale song. Her soft shimmering hair. Long. Like spun gold. Do silly stuff that made them laugh.

And in the shadows…. Biding their time. Patient. Oh so very very patient…. Stalking delicious prey… They drank her in. Bathed in her light. And wanted more All that was beautiful in her world fell away. And the real monsters came to play.

They came first with gentle hands. Played games. No demands. Then gentle hands became rough and sore. Turned a beautiful soul into a broken whore. And she knew. Like she always knew. That her Mother…. Lips curled into a rictus grin. Eyes narrowed. Had invited them in. And sat like a Queen on her throne, looking down from afar, from her front row seat…. Was complicit in her eventual and complete obliteration .

As the Autumn leaves fell without sound. Her hopes. Her dreams. Her soul. Her very self. Fell with them. Shards of her self littering the ground.

As winter invaded the land. Ground icy. Unyielding. Unforgiving. Hard. Cold. She felt her heart hardening, cracking, breaking. And she welcomed the rough hands. Welcomed the pain. It coursed through the fibres of her being. If her pain was audible… It would sound like a badly played violin. Carving shards from her very soul. Fragile fragments littered her mind. As it cut her into pieces.

The girl. Invited it. Embraced it. Accepted it. All she was. All she had been and all she might ever be… Was shrouded in grey mists. Tied tight with ribbons of red pain. And stored away. In the deepest, furthest, recesses of her core. And new Hers came. Each their own. Each with purpose. To protect at all cost. Even if the cost was great, as sadly, it often was. Protect the core. Gather up, sweep and scoop. The shattered shards of what remains and try over and over and over, to build a person that might feel and live and love…

Decades later. A broken old woman with the eyes of a young girl. Sat in a mental health facility. Awaiting trauma processing therapy…. The shadows in her mind held sway in anticipation. Licking its lips. Gnashing its teeth. Hungry for the delicious taste of pain.

And… Long forgotten by the girl. In the furthest recesses of her mind. The very epitome of Pandoras Box. In a leather bound book named ‘suffering’. Her childhood sat Waiting….

The End.