Death Angel

Chapter 1: The Fall

Two questions came to mind as I fell to my death: Who did it and why? 

Scarcely did I have the time to think about the ramifications as the pavement rushed up to meet me, a high-speed, frenetic ride that was over altogether too quickly. As my brains splattered all over the ground, I continued my reverie. The screams were all around me, the heat of the pavement sweltering on that hot summer day. 

I worried about how I had soiled my beautiful white dress. I worried, even about my chastity and hoped I had the sense to cross my legs properly so my underwear wouldn't be on display to everyone just then. As the blood flowed out from the sidewalk and onto the busy street, I felt a sudden twinge of regret as I realized my life as I knew it was over. Like a melting popsicle, the life of me oozed out onto the dusty street where the cars ran over my sticky substance, the goo of my being clinging to the rubber tires, the consistency like melted candy in the hot Louisiana summer.

The sounds of traffic were dissonant in the background. I wondered how and why my hearing was still intact. More importantly why I was still coherent, cognizant of my surroundings and the situation I was in. Most dead people were most certainly unconscious, comatose. At least that's what my idea of blissful oblivion would have been.

My hair swam in a hot, sticky, tangled dish of gumbo: equal parts blood, grime, sweat and a hearty dose of tears. The anguish was unbearable. I tried very hard to make sense of it all. I wanted to know why my body no longer moved. There was a sense of detachment now as well, and were it not for the injustice of it all and for the fact that this was oh, so personal to me, I might have deluded myself into thinking there was something entertaining in all this.

Like the audience of a cruel, distasteful joke, I kept waiting for the punchline that would never come.

The boys in blue had shown up in a hurry. The siren calls came, and then the area was suddenly cordoned off and all bystanders were ushered out as they rolled out the police tape. The burly detective that alighted from the Mustang took a puff of his Marlboro Reds and took a long look at me. He shook his head.

"Tsk. Tsk. It's always the pretty ones. The ugly ones never die young, not around Millionaire's Row at least." He spoke with the typical Creole accent.

"Who are you blondie? And what are you doing making a mess of yourself on this fine day?"

It was then that I noticed him. A shadow that looked out at me from the crowd. He alone saw me as I was. Everyone else stared at my old self, the empty shell that had left a bloody mess all over Esplanade Avenue.

I had instantly given him a nickname. I called him the Shadow because there was a darkness to him. The suit was monochrome, nondescript except for the fine fabric. Those of us who lived around these parts always knew how to tell a cheap suit from a good one.

The Shadow wasn't particularly grim either. He had an odd charm about him. He looked to be a young man in his thirties, attractive even, in a genteel way, reminiscent of the olden days. His suit appeared to be bespoke, from another day and time. The hat he wore, a fedora, seemed out of place somehow. He smiled affably and tipped his fedora at me.

It was odd, but then, the whole day had been. The fast paced turn of events. I had not even fully come to grips with what was happening at the moment. Was the Shadow mocking me?

The Shadow moved with purpose. There was an odd poise about him, as he slowly and calmly strolled to where I lay. I was a little embarrassed to be such a mess as he stood over me.

He was close enough now for me to make out his features. Very handsome, suave. Someone I would definitely go for if I had the chance. Why can he see me?

"Ah, Ma cherie," he said as he smiled, shook his head and continued to observe me. "It is so tragique, no?"

I wanted so desperately to respond but then I remembered I was dead. I couldn't. So I lay there quietly wondering what to do next.

"You can speak you know," he said after a few moments.

"I can?"  I wondered aloud in my thoughts.

"Absolutely." The shadow crouched down to look at me closer.

"I hope my skirt is covering me up pretty well." I thought to myself. "It would be embarrassing to be seen in such a state."

"Ah, yes. The blue panties are a nice touch. Very enchanting. But none but me can see them, so mind the crowd not. They are too far away now to see. Besides, that would be far too distasteful considering the state you are in."

"You can really hear me?" I continued to wonder aloud.

"I won't repeat myself, cherie. Lest I sound like a broken Victrola."

A broken Victrola. There was something about the way it was said. Affably, very Old World. Not a broken MP3 player, CD player or record. A Victrola.

"Who are you?" I wondered again to myself.

"I am, as they say, your benefactor."

Again, the Old World charm. Even the accent was difficult to place. There was a hint of Creole of course, very distinctly French, but not quite what we heard around these parts. There was a subtle difference in the nuances of his speech. Perhaps it was his word choices as well.

"A benefactor? What good could possibly be done for me at this point?" My frustration was mounting, and I now had an ear to bend and a shoulder to cry on. Why wouldn't I want to vent?

"Alas cherie, you do not as yet fully grasp the gravity of your situation, no?" It was almost as though the words were whispered to me. The shadow's voice was like silk to my ears, softly alluring, like fine wine.

The shadow shimmered in the bright daylight, his outline a haze that appeared above me, like an oasis in the desert. Was this hope I felt? It would be hard for anyone else to appreciate the situation I found myself in. Death is a form of release, but also of despair. What else could one who had lost their life possibly hope for or aspire to?

"So what will you do for me then?" I asked in my thoughts.

"I am your representative. Your advocate. Counselor if you wish. Or if you prefer the more plebeian term, Attorney."

"My lawyer? Why do I need a lawyer? It's not like I'm going to jail or anything, it's far too late for that."

"Ah, not man's justice, I'm afraid cherie," said the Shadow as he moved his face far closer to me. He was incredibly handsome. Now that I think of it, I can't quite say I've met anyone quite that good looking in my life. From the slender jaw line to the finely chiseled features, he was perfect to behold.

The Shadow pointed upward, toward the sky and smiled. "His justice."

"Well now you aren't making much sense," I said, almost self-righteously. Except I hadn't said it. I thought it. Perhaps. But he heard me anyway.

"The one who created us all, Cherie. You can call this being whatever you want, because it's what we all want: Allah, Nirvana, Jesus, God. He stands for all religions, and none," the Shadow's affable manner was at once comforting and unsettling.

"I... I'm a bit angry," I finally thought to myself.

The Shadow smiled. Such a wonderfully handsome man. Why was this handsome fellow chosen to twist the knife in my inner being? Here I was, experiencing the ultimate pain, both physically and mentally, and this handsome stranger shows up to not only taunt me, but torment me?

"Alas, Cherie, anger is certainly understandable. Pain, too, yes. Regret even. A few of us take it so far as to dedicate our eternal souls to hate."

"I'm sorry, I don't quite follow," I thought. My mind was certainly not in a normal state at this time. I decided to take my mind off the Shadow for a bit and looked around again.

The scene that greeted me was not that different from how it had always been. The dusty roads, the heat, the culture and vibrance that New Orleans brought. I was not a native. For most of my life, I grew up in Chicago, brought up with a Midwesterner's lifestyle. It wasn't just the cold that tempered my demeanor, it was the genteel manner in which we addressed each other.

"Anger is one of those feelings that stems from deep within us," the Shadow continued. "Much as the feelings of loss we have when a loved one departs from the mortal coil."

"Why do you do that?" I thought again.

"Do what, Cherie?"

"Talk like Yoda."

"Yoda?"

"The little green guy from Star Wars," I snapped. "Nevermind. You're obviously not normal."

I stood up and dusted myself, and then stopped in shock.

The Shadow smiled. "See, Cherie? You have gotten the hang of it now," he said taking my hand with all the grace and charm befitting that of New Orleans' elite.

I looked all around me and realized with shock that the whole world had stopped moving.

New Orleans was a vibrant city, and millionaire's row was exceptionally historic. The beautiful mansions, once brilliant in their prime, had not stood the test of time. The walls were gaudy, their facades once lustrous, had faded away. Still despite this, Esplanade Avenue had always held its own charms. The bustling commotion of the people making their way through, the smell of beignets in the air, the thrilling energy of the mysterious and the unknown; of magic, lewd and sensual in its decadence.

But this time, it was eerily different. The hustle and bustle had stopped. Everyone stood transfixed, as lifelike and unmoving as Madame Tussaud's wax creations. Even the cars that drove down the busy streets had stopped; appearing to me as ludicrous Tonka trucks and Matchbox cars along a realistic looking road.

"What's happening?" I asked.

"The time has come, Cherie," said the Shadow, and there was an odd seriousness about him.

"The time has come for what?" I asked aloud this time, confident that he could now hear me.

The Shadow took my hand and led me down the streets. It was as if a strange malaise had hit the planet and we were the last people on Earth. I looked around at the scenes of frozen life. A young boy was on his bike, both feet planted firmly on the pedals, but the spokes on the wheels weren't moving. A St. Bernard accompanied its owner on a leisurely stroll, its thick coat looking warm and soft.

The Shadow led me away from the busy street corners, toward a narrow, dead end alley. The garbage and refuse had piled up on the end. I felt fortunate that my sense of smell appeared to be gone; I smelled nothing.

The Shadow stopped, turned toward me and sighed. There was sadness in his beautiful eyes. We both stood there for what felt like an eternity, facing each other as the world stopped for us.

"This is always the hardest part," he said finally. "I am about to offer you two choices. But first, I must introduce myself," he said, smiling as he bowed to me.

Announcement: I'm pleased to announce that Death Angel has received it's first ever fan art! I think that's so awesome, I'm dedicating this first chapter to @Skaiila. Thanks for the beautiful artwork! :)

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