Of Angels and Demons

Unbidden, I turn. I put my hand to my mouth and bite it to keep myself from screaming. My left eye is swollen and purple, congealed blood laced (well, smeared) around it. My mouth is the same. Cuts are stitched up along the top of my eyebrow, completing the ‘overly abused girlfriend’ look. My hair is sprayed out behind me, which makes me think of a picture I found in my literature book. It was of the Morrigan, the Celtic harbinger of death. “Abbigail, do close your mouth.”

“Yeah,” says another oddly familiar voice. “You look like a retarded goldfish.”

Again, I turn towards the voice. There stands the same black-haired boy from last night, only this time his legs aren’t covered in mud, bugs, and whatever else was on the ground then. I finally get a really good look at him. He’s slightly shorter than I thought he was last night; of course, that doesn’t make him shorter than me. He’s muscular, but not ‘Ultimate Fighter Challenge’ material; his are thin and wiry. He’s dressed in a black Paramore tee shirt and cargo-suspenders of the same color.

“Well, ‘scuse me, Mister Straight-Up-G,” I retort, making fun of the baggy pants he’s wearing. “I just DIED.” I walk over to him and get up in his face. Wow, being dead really helps the joints. “And this ain’t a video game! I haven’t got two lives left!”

“Is that any way to talk to the guy who saved you?” He asks, still being a total smartass.

“Zachary! Abbigail!” Angie yells. “You’re dead, not babies!”

“Or dead babies.” I reply without realizing. Angie merely glares. “Abbigail, if you are to be an angel, then—!”

I hold up my hand, signaling for her to be quiet. “Wait. A. Minute.” I enunciate slowly. How can this be? I, most sinful person in Danover, have been made an angel? “I’m an angel?”

“Quite frankly, yes.” Angie replies, taking a sip of her coffee. “Now as I was saying, if you are to be an angel, then you must learn to control yourself. You don’t make jokes about death around an angel. Or a demon.”

“But how can it be?” My paper gown crackles as I sit down in the chair beside her.

“Simple.” She replies. “You repented.”

“I what?”

“You felt regret for your past actions.” Another sip.

“Only because I just got raped!”

“But you knew that what you were doing was bad for you.” Again, sip.

“And?”

“All things bad for you are against God.” Sip.

I have nothing to say to that. Angie continues, “So, once you repent verbally to someone,” she gestures to Zachary. “You become an angel.”

I pinch myself. It hurt. “Guess I can still feel. I must not be completely crazy, then. But still, why are you here Angie?”

“I’m your boss. Well, vice boss really. The Boss mainly stays in his office.”

“Boss?” I ask. “As in I have a job? I know I’m an angel, but…”

“You thought we just hung out in the clouds all day, playing Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata on our lyres?” Zachary asks. Man, he’s getting on my nerves now.

“Kind of,” I reply.

“Well, you do have a job,” replies Angie. “You take souls.”

“Like on Dead Like Me?”

“A bit, yes,” replies Angie. “Except if you don’t take the person’s soul before they die, the soul is doomed to wander the earth for eternity. And you don’t want an angry soul wandering around.”

“But we prevent that?” I ask, trying to grab the coffee pot. Angie takes it from me and pours me a cup. “Exactly,” she replies.

“Alright, then,” I say. “Let me get this straight. We’re angels, and we prevent souls from roaming the earth for all eternity?”

“Quite correct, yes.”

This can’t be real. It’s impossible. I mean, I’m no atheist but saying I was Christian would be a bit hypocritical, don’t you think? I’d never exactly followed the rules, if you catch my drift. One thing flawed her seemingly perfect plan, however. “How do we get to heaven?”

“We save souls. The number and severity of sins determines how many souls.”

“I thought all sins had the same severity?”

“No. He actually has a scale of sins.”

“How does it go?”

“From most to least, it’s Lust, Greed, Pride, Sloth, Anger, Envy, and Gluttony.”

I sigh, and then pinch myself again. Still felt that. “If I’m dead, then why hasn’t anyone tried to revive me yet?” I cross my arms. “I mean, this is a hospital, right?”

“You were taken off of life support last night. Non-priority.”

“Who was priority?” I immediately think of Damien. Was he hurt? Wait. Why did I even care? That assface tried to rape me! He could burn in hell for all I care.

“No, he’s not hurt,” snorts Zachary. “Like he could be.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, glaring at him. Was he blind or something? Did he not see the half-naked man lying in the car?

“You really expect a demon to be hurt by something as human as a car crash?”

Say good-bye to the thought train.