Short Tales

Angel Of Small Death

I honestly love the song and I've had an idea for a story for a while. What better way to do it than this?

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                             My grandmother always whispered, sitting in her chair on our visits. I asked her once, when I was little, who she was talking to. She described her to me, only once.

                            "I watched her snatch up my kin and boyfolk, whispering to them as she does now to me," she croaked, "wrapping them in her icy embrace then leaving them at her feet, sometimes stealing their good sense, abandoning them to the asphalt. Sweetened breath and silvered tongue, open arms and angelic wings, she would call them to devotion."

                               I listened with rapt attention as she leaned in closer, as if trying to hide her words from 'the angel'.

                                "Those hard arms won't hold me though!" she cackled, "With her sweetened breath and tongue so neat," she sneered, "straw blonde hair, arms hard and lean." She rose slowly, overgrown nails ripping the chair arms as she gripped too hard,

                                  "She's the angel of small death, boy! Once you're in her clutches its too late! Don't you see her boy?" She grabbed me and lifted me, spinning me to look into a corner of the room.

                                     "Its right there! Never give in boy!"

                                      "Michael!" My mother screamed, running into the room to snatch me from grandmother, drying tears I hadn't known were there.

                                      My father ran in after her, the shouting becoming incoherent as my family streamed into the room, my uncles holding down my grandmother as she struggled to get to me. She screamed after me raving and spitting, babbling about the angel. As they dragged me out of the room though, a woman waved at me. Her white wings flapped out behind her and her blonde hair shimmered in imaginary sunlight.

 My grandmother collapsed and foamed at the mouth.

                                      The lady was pretty.

*                    *                    *

                                       I ran out of the coffee shop stacked up with steaming cups, questioning my existence and reason for living.

                                       Design. That's it. 2 lattes no ice, 3 with ice, 5 decaf, 1 espresso, and one...coffee with three sugars, cream, a flower pattern and made with a special stash of coffee beans you could only get with a password and warmed in a microwave for 15 minutes. I swear Michelle is the most demanding bitch I've ever met. I balanced all of these on top of each other and shuffled to the office. Don't ask how.

                                       After struggling to call the elevator with no help from Michelle, the secretary - bitch - who just took her coffee and abandoned me, I crab-walked into the elevator and sighed, knowing that at least I could steal all the change. I looked into the reflective doors of the elevator and took in what hard work caused. My brown skin was ashen and slick with sweat, my black hair dripping and falling into my face, framing eyes ringed with black bags and eye boogers. 

                                        I used to be handsome. My colleagues snatched their cups from me and were back at their desks before I could even gripe about it or tell them I'm stealing their change.

                                        "Michael! In here! Now!" my boss shouted. I sighed and my shoulders slumped even lower. Of course, I could never do any right in this company. Michael always takes it, Michael always fixes it, Michael always says 'sorry sir, sorry miss, I'll do better next time'. But guess what? This is gonna be the same. I eased open the door and The Ogre was looming over his desk. The only difference was that he was trying to look sombre, instead he looked like he was constipated. I'd feel better if he was mad. 

                                          "Sit, Michael. As you know, we as a company love to look for new opportunities in youth, as we did with you. As a company progresses, expansion is required in certain departments. Appealing to youths and younger generations in design is no easy feat and here at GEX Magazines we like to make sure that our employees aren't suffering from undue stress. Therefore, we will be assigning a new person to the Youth Design Department as your assistant leader to ease your burden. Now, I don't want..." His words faded off into nothingness as my gaze drifted behind him and to his full glass wall. Newcomer? That doesn't sound too bad. Not like its a demotion or anything. Then again, I was a newcomer a couple months ago. A fresh new face to pump life into the youth department even though everyone already there were only 2 or 3 years older than me. I guess my first sign I would hate this place was that they all looked like their souls had been ripped out by The O--

                                             " What the hell is going on out there? It's dead silent." The Ogre blocked out the sun as he went to look out into the main building. Almost immediately he was yanked out and the door slammed shut. I jolted and vaulted over the table, hiding underneath and shivering. The door creaked open and fabric fluttered as whatever yanked my boss outside entered the room. Grandmother always said never to speak ill of the dead and my boss isn't an exception. A white gown and pale white feet hovered in front of me and I grabbed my mouth trying not to scream. It touched down and its face--her face, became visible, chuckling at me.

                                               With her sweetened breath and straw blonde hair, hard angles and curves all over her, she was my angel in the moment. Her hand reached out to me and I took it, entranced by everything about her, even the metallic smell that hung around her. 

                                                 Any people she hurt, any atrocity she committed were insignificant to me, small. She was my angel. The angel of small death.