Fallen Angel

♱ CHAPTER THIRTEEN

☼ JT

I'M SUPPOSED TO BE in Heaven right now. Lookin' for the Angel Blade, tryin' to steal it, and all that other fun stuff. Instead, I'm in Hell, sweatin' like a sinner in church. If they had any hens down here, I'm sure they'd be laying hard-boiled eggs by now. I don't come down here very often, but when I do, the temperature change always catches me off guard. You'd think that livin' in Texas would've prepared me for this, but no luck. Maybe one day I'll be able to waltz around here without sweating buckets, but until then, I'll just keep looking like the sweaty gal in a deodorant commercial. Do you think they have deodorant in Hell?

Anyways, I'm here to see Grim. I wanna thank him again for the vial and hopefully talk to him about Xavier. Not about our breakup, but about Luke's suspicions of him. Maybe Grim knows something we don't know, like whether or not Xavier is a Fallen Angel?

Grim's mansion is always the same. Gothic, dour, and shrouded in mystery. Today, the upper turrets are consumed by mist, enhancing the aura of gloom and doom. But my favourite part will always be the little wrought iron trim on the roof, the balconies, and the front gate. I love how something as hard as iron can still twist and curve into something dainty. It's the hardness of life that twists and curves us into who we are.

My first orphanage had wrought iron doors. I still remember the day I got there. I was probably around seven years old, alone and terrified of everything around me. I remember hiding behind a couch at the public library every night, falling asleep and hoping the storybook characters would keep me safe.

The worst part about my childhood was my memory problem. I couldn't remember anything about myself or my family or where I came from. And I was scared — no, terrified — of not knowing. It bothered me so much. I remember asking myself, How can you not know your own name? How can you not have a family? How could you forget something so important? I know now that I couldn't remember because I'd spent my previous life as an Angel. When I woke up on Earth as seven-year-old me, it was because God had decided I needed a (very) fresh start. I had to earn my powers back. I had to become me again.

But I didn't know who I was anymore.

Eventually, someone saw me sneak behind the couch just before closing time, and an employee threw me out. It was raining, and I remember standing on the steps to the library, letting my tears mingle with the raindrops. I hadn't been sleeping in the library for long, but it had started to feel like the safest place for me. Being kicked out onto the streets, at seven years old, with literally nothing except the clothes on my back... that was one of the scariest moments of my life.

     The rain began to pour, falling in fat droplets on the library's front steps. I remember standing there defeated, letting the rain soak me to the bone. Every drop seemed to remind me that I had nowhere to go. As I stared out onto the dark street, lit only by a few faint streetlights, I wished to be invisible.

But I wasn't. A Catholic sister happened to be walking by. Her name was Sister Mary, like the Blessed Virgin Mary, and she saw me for what I really was. Not an Angel, but a child — lost, scared, and lonely. She must've seen my tear-stained cheeks, my worn clothes, my dirty hair. My empty hands. She looked at me with sadness in her eyes.

Sister Mary walked up to me urgently, her eyes searching mine for answers I couldn't give her. How long had I been on my own? How long had I been homeless? I think she decided it was best not to know, because she shook her head and did her best to smile at me.

"Are you lost?" she asked me, but I think she knew the answer to that. She cupped my cheek in her hand, her mouth set in a grim line. Tears filled her eyes. "I think you should come with me."