Finding Mercy

Chapter Two

Yaaayyyyy first feedback!! But I still have high hopes for this story, so...reviews=love, love=happiness, and happiness=updates...except for when I have dance, tennis, or basketball. :{~ (man with mustache making a kissy face) ~ 5.66.8.22~8.22~33.3.8.333.11.5.3.33~5.9~@1.7.11.5.5.4.9.11.666.33.5.4.3.6.22.55.8.4.99

I grabbed the paper and crumpled it into a ball. I could pretend I never saw it, that I just moved away the table without curiosity. But my mind couldn't breach an explanation for its contents--L Case? Indulgent? Traumatica? Not only did I have no idea what those things were, I had no idea how they applied to me... whoever I was, anyway.

I hauled the typewriter over to the wide windowsill and placed it there, letting the breeze move the transparent curtains over it in the midmorning sunshine. As for the desk, I shoved it into the corner--let that woman come back and take it.

Heaven, or wherever this was, was more confusing than most made heaven out to be. I mean, I was an angel, and I was safe and somewhere beautiful, but the whole concept of not knowing who I was or I once was frightening in the least.

I threw myself onto the plaid covers of the bed, staring up at the plastered ceiling. The whisper of a wind made it feel like it was maybe sometime in late summer. I reached over to the bedside table and opened the first drawer. It was stuffed to the brim with yarn and knitting needles and "Doodle-it" drugstore books and a homemade First-Aid kit that smelled faintly of floral perfume. Eventually, though, my hand grasped a book. Yanking it out of the drawer, my eyes pored over the title:

"Diary."

In that instant my hand feigned the exact feeling of scrawling truthful words across these pages and the feelings behind the entries. I was starting to elicit a pattern here: everything my mind recognized was mine. This diary was mine.

On the first page, a large stain of something like coffee was splattered over the paper, completely covering the words. In the beginning, though, I could make out the start of an entry.

"Dear Diary,

This is my first entry. I don't know you, and you don't know me, not yet, at least. But here, let me start. My name is--"

And then the coffee blotted it out.

I slammed my diary shut in frustration. I was that close to discovering who I was. But interest compelled me to continue flipping through the yellow pages of the journal. It was a smattering of adolescent problems: crushes, best friend drama, popularity, running for class rep. Nothing out of the ordinary. Until the very last entry...

"Dear Diary,

Something's happened. I can't tell you what, cuz there's a chance someone will read this. But I'm not normal anymore. They hired me. They're forcing me to do all these things, even though I'm just twelve. It really hurts to talk about it, but this might be my last entry. I just wish this torture could end, because I'm not sure how much more I can take. Goodbye, diary... glad you know who I once was."

My head spun. This was the first hint of what might have happened, but it didn't make any sense. I sought briefly for explanations. A gang? Drugs? Prostitution, even? I couldn't see an innocent twelve-year-old being forced to do all these things, but what else could it be?

In the midst of my thoughts somewhere, I drifted off to a dreamless, peaceful sleep. It must have been a while before I opened my eyes, moving my wings gently.

Shuffles sounded from downstairs, and my teeth clenched in fear. Was there an intruder? I crept out of bed, just pausing to smooth my tunic, and slowly made my way downstairs into the kitchen. My veins were pulsing in my head as I pressed my back to the kitchen door.

A male voice hummed happily behind, almost as if he hadn't a care in the world. Rude! I screamed mentally. I burst through the door, fist clenched in annoyance.

"Who are you and what are you doing in my house?" I demanded.

The boy looked up at me in surprise--the kind of surprise where he had no idea what he was doing wrong. And as a result, I suppose, his almost too puffed-up wings froze. He was grasping a spatula and making pancakes on the old gas oven stove.

He was decently attractive, I suppose. Bleached blond hair, thoughtful hazel eyes, a round face, and a skinny frame gave him the impression of an underfed chipmunk, and...well...he just wasn't my type, whatever my type was.

"My name is Jan," he said timidly yet factually, "and I'm here making some pancakes. I mean, I'm in heaven and I'm not alive, so I don't need food, but it's a bit odd not to eat, wouldn't you agree?"

I suddenly felt a bit awkward and shifted my weight from side to side. "Yeah, but...why did you make them in my kitchen?" 

He cast a sideways glance at me. "You're new here, aren't you?"

I nodded. "Just got here this morning."

He laughed, a deep, throaty affair that made me want to join him. "Well, then, you've probably met the receptionist."

I furrowed my brow. "You mean that rude woman who was up in my room typing on her typewriter?"

"Yep. No one knows her name or why she's even in heaven at all; she isn't that nice. Some people think she's Mother Theresa gone bad or something, but I honestly just think she was hired to give us angels a little bit of h-hell before paradise." He stuttered, jaw stiff, over the word hell.

I shrugged, mentally debating whether to tell him about what I found on the paper. In the split second, though, I decided against it--he still was a stranger, after all. "Okay...but what does this have to do with you being in my house without permission."

He continued as if the question fazed him not at all. "In heaven, there are no locked doors. All of us are brothers and sisters. That's what Lord teaches us."

I kept on hearing about this Lord figure. I mean, I knew offhand that he ruled the roost around here, but he still remained an enigma to me. I simply grunted in response.

The batter hissed, almost serpentine in its way, as it poured onto the stove. My eyes traveled over the expert way he darted the spatula under the pancake and let it grow fluffy and perfectly cooked. Within a minute or so the cakes ended up, steaming, on a platter he handed to me. I seated myself at the kitchen table, eyeing the food but not sure whether or not I was hungry. "Eat," he urged.

With the first bite I took of one of his pancakes, I knew for certain we were going to be the best of friends.

"So, what's your name?" he asked, plopping down next to me.

I turned slightly pink at the prospect of having to admit the truth. "I...don't know, honestly," I admitted. I once again mentally observed the blank that absolved nothing within me except my own identity.

"Huh. Well then..." He peered at me, almost as if he were trying to look into my soul. "Do you remember your life?"

"I've seen my old diary, but it doesn't reveal much."

He narrowed his eyes. "Then I'll call you Amnesia. Sia for short."

"Sia," I whispered. I knew that wasn't it, not even close. But it was a pretty, exotic name for someone like me who knew no name, and having at least the foretaste of an identity gave me an odd sort of security I couldn't find elsewhere.

My stomach was stuffed with pancake, but I felt no more bloated than I did only hours ago when I woke up in this strange place. Looking in the countertop, so impeccably clean it was reflective, I saw my hair had been tussled in my sleep. My wings held a steady beat on my back, my muscles performing the job without thinking.

"So...Sia, wanna go downtown?" I nodded, and he led me to the back door.

But when he turned to me, something was different. I searched him over optically. Same white tunic, same golden hair, same shape. Then I saw his eye.

They weren't the nice hazel they were.

They were a pale, glazed white.