Status: fin.
Real Angels
real angels
I tell her she looks like an angel under the dim streetlamps of the restaurant parking lot. We sit on the hood of my stationwagon, watching the cars zoom by. The weather is cool, like stepping outside after a hot shower.
Anya turns to me, her hand pressed against the hood of the car. Her french manicured nails turn white.
"I'm not an angel," she says. She says, "Angels aren't partially blind. Angels can see everything."
I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to...
"There's nothing to be sorry about." Anya takes a long drag from her cigarette and makes a ring of smoke with her glossed lips. "Angels don't smoke, either."
You don't know that. Have you met an angel?
She raises her eyebrows at me and tilts her head back to look at the sky. Her dark hair cascades down her back as she takes another drag from her cigarette. She's silent for a while. I purse my lips, thinking I've gone too far.
"You know, I almost died once," she says quietly. The white ashes from her glowing cigarette drift to the ground like snowflakes. "I think I met people that I once loved up there." She smiles slightly. "I think I even met Marilyn Monroe. God, she was so beautiful. Now, she looked like an angel with her soft, blonde hair and those eyes. I was so envious, in such awe...
"You know what she told me?"
I shake my head. What could Marilyn have said that was so important?
"She told me you should never take anything for granted." She breathes out a steady stream of ivory smoke. "And I think she was right." She sticks out a pale arm. Etched in her skin are the words "fucking cunt". I trace the sharp, misshapen letters lightly. She doesn't flinch. "I'm not sure what I used for that. To be honest, I don't even remember if I did that or if someone else did. I'm not proud of what I used to do, but it's there. It'll always be there.
"I had friends that died." She shakes her head, the cigarette hanging from her lips. "Lots of them. Some got AIDS or HIV from sharing needles. Some got gangrene and lost limbs. I don't know why I continued using after seeing these people sitting around, dying. I was lucky.
"I used to think heroin was my friend. No, my soul mate. My lover. I felt like I was soaring in the air. I felt so beautiful. So fucking beautiful. I thought this was what love felt like. I craved it; I slept with men from everywhere for money. I had bruises. Big, purple welts. I carried a lighter, a spoon, a syringe, and a needle everywhere I went. My parents thought I was a loser.
"I was addicted, but I didn't care. I had what I loved.
"In the back of someone's pickup truck, I got high. They must've thrown me out of it, because that's how I met Marilyn. She had that soft glow around her, you know...that bright aura you think angels would have. Real angels. Her hair was absolutely perfect. Her lips were smeared precisely with scarlet lipstick. And her teeth...they gleamed so bright.
"'You need to stop this,' she told me. 'Anya, you're worth something. You need to clean yourself up. When was the last time you were sober?'
"Marilyn touched my stringy hair, and her fingers were so warm. She frowned at me. 'Wake up, sweetheart,' she said in a sweet, sad voice. 'Wake up.'"
Anya wipes the tears from her eyes, and I dab her cheeks with a napkin. She smiles slightly. "I woke up in a hospital. Someone was kind enough to call 911 for some stupid junkie like me.
"It was hard getting sober." She takes a long drag from her cigarette, her cheeks sucking in. "But I can't say I miss drugs."
Is there anything you'll ever miss?
"No." She looks at me. "People took advantage of me. I did everything I could to get my fix. I swore to myself and to Marilyn that I'd never do something like that ever again."
I slip off the hood of the car, and I stick out a hand for Anya, who jumps off the hood by herself. She smiles, throwing the cigarette filter on the ground. She crushes it with her gun metal gray stiletto. She leans over the station wagon.
"I don't regret any of it either, though."
Why not?
She laughs and tosses her dark hair over her shoulder. "Edward, I wouldn't have met you if I hadn't met an angel that night. I wouldn't have pushed myself to get into Yale. I wouldn't have met you, and that would've been a shame."
Anya steps over to me and reaches for my hands. "I couldn't be happier, Edward."
I couldn't be either.
Anya turns to me, her hand pressed against the hood of the car. Her french manicured nails turn white.
"I'm not an angel," she says. She says, "Angels aren't partially blind. Angels can see everything."
I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to...
"There's nothing to be sorry about." Anya takes a long drag from her cigarette and makes a ring of smoke with her glossed lips. "Angels don't smoke, either."
You don't know that. Have you met an angel?
She raises her eyebrows at me and tilts her head back to look at the sky. Her dark hair cascades down her back as she takes another drag from her cigarette. She's silent for a while. I purse my lips, thinking I've gone too far.
"You know, I almost died once," she says quietly. The white ashes from her glowing cigarette drift to the ground like snowflakes. "I think I met people that I once loved up there." She smiles slightly. "I think I even met Marilyn Monroe. God, she was so beautiful. Now, she looked like an angel with her soft, blonde hair and those eyes. I was so envious, in such awe...
"You know what she told me?"
I shake my head. What could Marilyn have said that was so important?
"She told me you should never take anything for granted." She breathes out a steady stream of ivory smoke. "And I think she was right." She sticks out a pale arm. Etched in her skin are the words "fucking cunt". I trace the sharp, misshapen letters lightly. She doesn't flinch. "I'm not sure what I used for that. To be honest, I don't even remember if I did that or if someone else did. I'm not proud of what I used to do, but it's there. It'll always be there.
"I had friends that died." She shakes her head, the cigarette hanging from her lips. "Lots of them. Some got AIDS or HIV from sharing needles. Some got gangrene and lost limbs. I don't know why I continued using after seeing these people sitting around, dying. I was lucky.
"I used to think heroin was my friend. No, my soul mate. My lover. I felt like I was soaring in the air. I felt so beautiful. So fucking beautiful. I thought this was what love felt like. I craved it; I slept with men from everywhere for money. I had bruises. Big, purple welts. I carried a lighter, a spoon, a syringe, and a needle everywhere I went. My parents thought I was a loser.
"I was addicted, but I didn't care. I had what I loved.
"In the back of someone's pickup truck, I got high. They must've thrown me out of it, because that's how I met Marilyn. She had that soft glow around her, you know...that bright aura you think angels would have. Real angels. Her hair was absolutely perfect. Her lips were smeared precisely with scarlet lipstick. And her teeth...they gleamed so bright.
"'You need to stop this,' she told me. 'Anya, you're worth something. You need to clean yourself up. When was the last time you were sober?'
"Marilyn touched my stringy hair, and her fingers were so warm. She frowned at me. 'Wake up, sweetheart,' she said in a sweet, sad voice. 'Wake up.'"
Anya wipes the tears from her eyes, and I dab her cheeks with a napkin. She smiles slightly. "I woke up in a hospital. Someone was kind enough to call 911 for some stupid junkie like me.
"It was hard getting sober." She takes a long drag from her cigarette, her cheeks sucking in. "But I can't say I miss drugs."
Is there anything you'll ever miss?
"No." She looks at me. "People took advantage of me. I did everything I could to get my fix. I swore to myself and to Marilyn that I'd never do something like that ever again."
I slip off the hood of the car, and I stick out a hand for Anya, who jumps off the hood by herself. She smiles, throwing the cigarette filter on the ground. She crushes it with her gun metal gray stiletto. She leans over the station wagon.
"I don't regret any of it either, though."
Why not?
She laughs and tosses her dark hair over her shoulder. "Edward, I wouldn't have met you if I hadn't met an angel that night. I wouldn't have pushed myself to get into Yale. I wouldn't have met you, and that would've been a shame."
Anya steps over to me and reaches for my hands. "I couldn't be happier, Edward."
I couldn't be either.