Fallen Angel

☼ CHAPTER SIX

☽ Luke

     THE RADIO TUNES IN AND OUT as I roll into the parking lot of some vintage diner. It flickers between some old country song and Mr. Sandman, until after a few seconds, it fades into static. I turn it off with a heavy sigh. I'm in the middle of nowhere and even my radio has deserted me. What a marvellous life I'm living.

     The fading Open 24/7 sign hanging in the window flickers despondently. I see lights on inside, but no one at the counter or in any of the booths. Still, I must've been drawn here for a reason. I always trust my gut, ever since it led me to that alley two years ago. I have to go inside. I have to know why I was drawn here.

     I remember the excitement I once felt at being drawn by my Angel Intuition. I remember feeling the excitement, but can't force myself to feel it anymore. Excitement is just a memory to me now. I don't have the luxury of feeling. I'm nothing more than a weapon, now.

     The car is parked and the engine is off, but I don't make a move for the door handle. Instead, I sit still, thinking about nothing and everything all at once. I think about that night while simultaneously trying not to think about it. I think about her for a split second, before forcing her out of my mind. One day, I won't think of her anymore, I remind myself. I simultaneously dread and look forward to that day.

     It's a paradox, just as she was.

     The air in my car begins to feel suffocating, and I wrench the door open. The rogue demon I'm being drawn to isn't gonna catch itself. I need to go in.

     The night air is warm and humid against my skin, and I peel my leather jacket off after locking the doors of my car. My feet crunch against the packed dirt as I approach the doors of the diner. I swear I see a tumbleweed rolling in the distance, which only proves my theory that this is a ghost town in the middle of a cracked desert. But does that make me the ghost?

     A twinkling sound greets me as I enter the diner, caused by chimes hanging on the doorframe, and suddenly I'm overwhelmed by a sense of déjà vu. I have to really force myself to not think about that night, or else my mind will replay it over and over again, like a cinema showing only one film. It's the reason I haven't set foot in a 7/11 in two years.

     Focus, I remind myself. You're here to catch a rogue demon, not to buy Gatorade.

     The floor is a checkerboard of black and white tiles, and the walls blush pink as a result of the red neon lights attached to every wall. Old road signs, car advertisements, and posters of pin-up girls adorn the walls. The booths are made of cherry-red vinyl, and each table has a mini jukebox and a giant straw dispenser tucked away in the corner. It smells like cooking oil. I can hear Mr. Sandman crackling quietly from the kitchen, but otherwise it is eerily silent. The lights flicker briefly, and when they return there's a girl standing at the counter, staring straight at me with eyes as black as the sky outside. Her hair is an abundance of curls which cannot seem to decide which way they want to fall, projecting outwards at nearly every angle. She has warm brown skin and is very tiny — small enough that she could still be in high school. She looks like the kind of person who stands on a street corner and gives out free hugs. Or she would, if not for those black eyes staring blankly at me. She looks at me like she knows who I am. What I am. Why I'm here. Bingo.

     We lock eyes for only half a second more before she blinks. When her eyes open again, they're the colour of melted brown sugar. She smiles at me like I caught her off guard, as though she's surprised to see a customer in the diner at this hour, but she's happy for something to do. The music in the kitchen abruptly switches to a pop song about maybe calling someone? (I'll never understand Mortal music). It's annoying and not nearly as good as Mr. Sandman.