(c) Angels and Demons. [PG-13]

by tea-boy. Mon 15 Feb 2010, 11:04 am

Title: Angels and Demons.
Rating: PG-13
Author: Me.
Genre: Original Fiction.
Status: One-shot.

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I lay hidden behind a row of seats in the theatre, blurry eyes staring into the blinking fluorescent lights. The voice of an angel floats through my ears as the tears stream down the sides of my face and into the pretty red carpet. I guess it sometimes takes true beauty to bring out the total ugliness of the world. And I can’t stop thinking about the operas I never saw and the books I never read and the people I didn’t meet and the things I never did. It all just comes crashing through my head, in the same waves as the celestial voice float through my ears.

I hear clandestine footsteps sound from the main isle and come to a silence as the body they are attached to leans on a broken chair. The chairs are ugly, the peeling ceilings are ugly, the stage is ugly, the world is ugly and I guess that’s why I couldn’t turn my eyes away from the blinding lights that kept blinking on an off. I know who it is though. I hear the familiar click of a lighter and the metal snap of the lid closing, and moments later, I see the smoke gliding across my vision. I know the face that stands beside me; I know the bony legs, the sharp clothes, and the sting of cologne that always singes my nostrils. And maybe this face is not ugly, but it’s hollow. The pretty blue eyes lack emotion of any kind, the slicked back hair, the sharply cut, but worn out suit, part black, part dingy white. I don’t need to look, I don’t want to look. Because behind the pretty eyes and crooked smile is ugly. He is uglier than me, uglier than this theater, uglier than the lights, uglier than the angel’s voice in my ear that I couldn’t deserve if I paid penance one hundred times. I hear him exhale and I hear every word that comes out through his yellow teeth.

“It sucks, don’t it,” he says, taking another puff.

I don’t say anything. I can feel his crooked smirk looking down on me.

“That’s the problem with you people,” he says, “You spend so much time shoving all the self-hate to the back of your mind that you finally think you have control and it all just comes back ten fold.”

Another drag and he stamps it out next to my ear. His stained hands clap, echoing through the hall. I hear a brief “thank you” in the distance. I don’t want to know who the applause was for. I don’t want to know anything anymore.

“I can see past you, y’know. I always have, I knew this would happen before we even met,” he laughs a little, “But I guess that’s not the point. That’s what you don’t understand. There is no point, there is no goal, and there is nothing but the consequences of your decisions. Nothing but what you try to disguise. Nothing but fight and failure.”

As I watch his lips release the truth with every word, I see small bits of smoke cross my eyesight. I guess that’s what makes him so ugly. I still don’t say a word, there’s nothing to say at this point, nothing that would change anything, anyway. I see crimson in my peripheral vision, there is no hideous gray left within my sight range. This is my last (and only) act of beauty. It’s the only pure part of me; the only thing ugly hasn’t taken. He steps over me, polished shoes blocking the stream of blinking white for only a few moments, and I hear his steps leave the room and walk down the hallway.

Well, it’s the voice of my angel up there. I think about looking at her one last time, but I don’t think I can lift my head. The flickering barely registers anymore, there’s little light left in my eyes, and it’s fringed with darkness. I hear my angel’s voice and my God it is beautiful. She’s singing my swan song much better than I ever could. I love her with all the affection my ugly heart can hold, I hope she understands. Her voice is wavering; I think she knows there’s something wrong with me. Oh, my dearest angel, just keep singing.