The Angel that Came

THE ANGEL THAT CAME

It was a cold, miserable summer's day in the middle of June, raindrops making deceptively loud pitter-patters as they struck the concrete surface, showering down as if they were the tears of God himself. The wind bayed like a thousand hyenas as I approached the foyer, pacing quickly through the endless halls of artificial grandeur that defined the old cathedral. Instantly recognisable by its signature faux-gothic architecture, it stood as a centerpiece in the middle of downtown, illustrating the city council's callous disregard that plagued the real people of the city. After what seemed just shy of forever, I reached the funeral just in time to hear the officiant cry out the opening words of the procession: 

  "We are gathered so solemnly here today, to celebrate the life and love of Cynthia Anderson Newcastle, a woman loved by her family, her friends and—" 

   My ears drowned out his voice as his words blended into one another, but I would be fine, I was fine. There was nothing wrong with me, everything was going to be okay.

  I ran through the motions of the funeral, giving a short tearful speech filled to the brim with lazy clichés while forcing a grim caricature of sorrow. You have to understand, I was upset. I just hadn't quite processed it yet. Thankfully, I was relieved of my duties to grieve. I gave my condolences and heard those of a hundred others before dragging myself out of that accursed house of God.

Driving through the city had always been a favourite part of the day for me. I was a great driver even though this car drove terribly, its interior unfamiliar and mysterious. I always paid attention to the road and did all the things they tell you to do, all the guidelines and the rules. I abhorred bad drivers. There were just so many speeding idiots, but not me. Given the events of the day, the drive was like a blur, and eventually, I arrived home.

  After masterfully pulling into the driveway, I went straight up to my bedroom, crippled by fatigue after a long day at the police station, followed by the incredibly taxing funeral after. My bedroom, beautiful as always, its pearl white walls perfectly juxtaposed with the bright rainbow carpet, which outlined our - my bed and the sleek  minimalist furniture simply accented the cozy modern feel of the space. Preparing for bed, I ran through the usual routines, I realised that I should really start feeling guilty about it, but why feel guilty if you aren't wrong? Realising that I had a lot of errands to run,  I then wrote that cheque for the car the next morning, and hit the health check-up in the evening. My head hurt from thinking of all the countless stupid errands, it was all so confusing why did it have to be so hard!?. Exacerbated, I went to bed which smelt like sweet-scented honey bringing a rather serene smile to my face.

  Sleep eluded me for the better half of the night, slipping in and out of a nonsensical dreamlike world and maybe, in comparison to my current predicament, a far better world.

   I forced myself to rise when the sun crawled back up and went through the usual morning checklist, but she was missing. I was morose yet I was calm, I was irate, yet also lackadaisical. With the necessities complete, I went for a coffee. Jogging down to the local café to order a macchiato was my cure for a bad day.
 
  "Hey Winston, espresso macchiato No sugar, no milk like every day?"

  "Yes, of course, I don't take anything else," I answered, forcing a smile and trying to impart an impression of candor. 

   "Oh, and I'm sorry man, you know — about your wife. She— She was a good woman, it wasn't your fault, you know what they say 'God plucks the most beautiful of flowers, and hating that does make us monsters' which I know seems like propaganda from Sunday School but what I'm trying to say is— "

"Ok, I get it, I'm fine. Had a great night's sleep, and sure, I'm torn over this but I'll heal, thanks for checking in man." I interjected before I had to listen to his insufferable voice drone on any longer, clearly just patronisingly mocking me. 

"Great night's sleep? You sure, man? You don't look that good, maybe you should— " 

"I am fine, thank you so much for the concern, doctor," I voiced sarcastically, intervening before he went off on another soliloquy. grabbing my coffee, I walked away. 

  Already my morning was ruined, the nerve of this guy to insult my looks. Sure maybe I hadn't slept soundly, but I still remembered having a great rest, and I was fine, would be fine, and should be fine because he was right and it wasn't my fault. 

  Quickly, I raced to the bank and settled the repair fees for my car, I had accidentally wrecked it the other day. Luckily, I was relieved of work for a while. The office had sent a letter of condolences last week.
Expressing their 'sincere regret' for Cindy's passing. Just a compulsory corporate protocol, so the boss could feel good about himself and make an impression on the public that he was 'compassionate' and 'kind'. The upside was that I would have a week off, which was a godsend.
I am fine, yes, but it still felt good to have a week to reflect on Cindy's death, considering the accident was only partially my fault anyway, just a stupid mistake. I was mad at her for something I can't even remember and told her to get out, go do some errands, or something like that.