His Angel

Chapter 1 - God Loves To Fuck With Me

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Tonight has been a futile tussle of conflicting thoughts.

I don't want to sleep.

However it has become impossible to ignore the constant pleads sprouting from my inner-conscience that desires only the closing of my eyelids.

The late hours of the night have taken an all too heavy tole on me and exhaustion is becoming too tiresome to fight. However, my second voice chastises me, scolding my wish of rest - for the longer I lie awake in this bed the slower the dreaded day of morrow will arrive.

The first day at my new school.

Despite my attempts to silent my inventive imagination, it is relentless and never fails to provide me with all the alluring yet terrifying possibilities tomorrow will bring. Like a broken record, a chorus of anxious thoughts continue to replay in mind on a loop.

Throughout my childhood and early teenage years I have always been fond of school, only finding it to bring pleasant and joyous experiences.

Not once have I been tormented by an immature, spiteful teenager, nor has making new friends ever become an issue, even the majority of the teaching faculty were quite 'smitten' with me - of course, I was always a suck up. 

There is no logical reasoning that I am able to comprehend to understand why I cannot stop the feeling of nausea building in the pit of my stomach. To understand why I cannot holt the dancing of butterflies now too obvious to disregard.

A few months ago some surprising news was delivered directly to my palm nervously stating that we were moving houses.

I remember originally objecting to this new life, initially detesting this foreign idea of starting over.

I remember how my heart had sunk to my feet as these sickening words were spewed from my parents mouths. After they scrambled to explain their reasoning, I became more understanding and most definitely willing.

"Nana is sick."

Inevitably, those words were immediately layered with flimsy coatings of reassurance; mum had sworn that it was nothing serious, merely a "nuisance" that comes with old age.

I am not stupid.

The subtle cracks in her voice and how her eyes glistened from tears as she vocally shared the news promised me nana's illness was not a simple "nuisance"- oh how I wish it were.

Of course I had masked the rising lump in my throat and the brewing sobs threatening to expose me with a supportive smile. I had made sure to squeeze my eyes tightly shut as I embraced my mum, my face conveniently moving out of her view.

Selfishly, I did nothing further to comfort my upset mother in that moment. I was too scared she would see through my act and come to be aware of my deeper understanding of nana's illness. I was struggling to hold off the salty waterfall that was so eager to flow down my face and made up some idiotic excuse to leave the house.

Surprisingly, she believed me.

My mind was elsewhere but my feet had a destination in mind.

I landed by a park bench.

No words had to be spoken between my nana and I for us to both be aware that this was our bench. It was our place for whenever she visited - it always had been.

The bench faced away from all the buildings, the traffic; the chaos. Instead, it looked out on the green trees, the open skies; the escape. That's what it was, to me at least - an escape from reality, however I'm aware it was rather the company than the location that made it feel that way.