The Withered Arm

Chapter 4- Him

Malcolm Kingsley stood there in his black leather jacket, the one he was never seen without, and stared at the orange-tinged sky. Lifting his hand he settled the lung killing stick between his teeth letting a deep breath of the cool, clean air flow down his throat, he had never raised the lighter for he promised her he wouldn't.

Glancing up from the shadow that had clouded his view, he lifted his head and let his eyes sweep the area. There on the ledge was an angel, or what he thought was one, in its whole glory, arms outstretched backwards as though trying to hold on and move herself back from the edge.

Eyes straining, he could see wet stained tracks lining the girl's cheeks, a distorted expression on her face from the suffering, bright wide eyes that held pupils darting left, right, up, down, looking for freedom, a release from what he did not know.

Slowly he made his way to the edge of the alley to get a better view of his lost angel, a feeling of helplessness from being bound to the ground came over him; while she looked like she wanted to fly, yet knowing herself that she would fall.

No!

He could not let that happen. Up there was his best friend, his love, his angel, straining against something he could not see, an evil. For as long as he lived he knew he would protect and love her, whenever, wherever, whatever the problem he would be there to save her and now it was that time.