Dim

“I guess it never really mattered, not to anyone,” Delia thought, her fingers like numb blocks of meat from her death grip on the pole.
“No one really cares that Wings is dead, so why should I?”

The other bearer hadn’t cared about her; he was just a social worker, just doing his job.

He was young and this was barely a ding on his reputation. “I mean, I never really knew her, we’d only met three or four times.” So why did her eyes burn, her tears only held back by sheer force of will?

She let out a shaky breath and looked ahead, anything not to focus on the small sky blue coffin. Too small--no one should live such a short life as to need it.

For a moment her eyesight seemed to dim, threatening to fade into total darkness. She shook her head, an unruly red curl springing free of its binding and falling into her eyes. Wings’ had been beautiful, her hair so light it was almost white.

“With big bright green eyes to match,” she thought dully. The first time she’d seen her she’d thought Wings looked like an angel.

Another wave of lightheadedness hit her as she helped settle the little box into the cradle of straps that would lower it into its final resting place, where Wings would be buried under a mountain of… She had to clench her teeth together to stop from screaming, a thin whistling noise emitting from between her teeth, and her too thin shoulders hunched.

She felt Mrs. Abernathy’s arm wrap around her, half keeping her up. Delia could practically read her thoughts as she was led her over to one of six folded chairs.

“It wasn’t a good idea to bring her here; she’s too fragile to deal with this.” That was what they all thought: Delia is fragile in body and mind.

She shuddered despite the winter coat wrapped tight around her, ice climbing up her spine. This was wrong.

There had been no speaker and she was grateful for that; no one to pretend that they really knew Louisa St. Marcus. Even Delia could not claim that.'

This finally broke thru her resolve and her tears fell, her body wracked with silent shaking sobs. By the time the casket had reached its resting place, she could barely see or breathe; Mrs. Abernathy’s hands held her upright.

The other parishioners all leaned away or muttered amongst themselves.

However, it wasn’t until the first of them stood up to drop a handful of dirt onto her sister’s casket that it fully hit her. She stood half up hands outstretched, mouth open slightly as if to scream, “NO!” But gray dots flooded her vision, darkening and converging; then she fell listless and immune to the ground.

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The world paused, panicked faces freezing comically. The man’s face changed subtly as he strode forward, bending down to scoop up her pale, limp form. He whispered, “You will come back, little one.” Then his face bent to gently kiss her forehead.

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Delia blinked blearily awake, not taking in anything for a minute. She was warm and sleepy, and her whole body was begging to return to unconsciousness.

Her eyes had already begun to close when a wave of fear struck her. She sat bolt upright; she had no idea where she was. She was lying on a weathered leather couch, the scratchy warmth of a blue wool blanket on her.

She stared wildly around at the creamy white walls and red brick fireplace, a procession of little framed masterpieces across the mantle, and relaxed. It looked harmless enough.

She bit her lip, unsure of what to do. The brief surge of adrenaline had left her wide-awake and antsy. Standing up she half expecting her legs to go out from under her, but they stood firm.

She let out a breath she had not been aware of holding, cold shivers running down her spine. Pulling the thick wooly blanket around her, Delia tiptoed over the thick carpet to the mantel.

The pictures ranged from an old faded sketch of a tiny seedling to a glossy new Kodak of an enormous ancient oak in a silver wreathed frame.

She ran her finger around the edge; from oldest to newest, they all held the same image, steadily growing taller and stronger.

The door clicked open and Delia jumped, spinning on her heels. The fair-haired young man’s eyebrows raised. “Afternoon,” he said amusedly, setting down a tray with tea settings.

The warm steam of the beverage drifted up, tickling her nose with a soft lemony herb scent.

Delia was suddenly aware of just how frizzy her hair was and how puffy her sore eyes must be.

“I’m happy to see you’re awake,” he said, pouring the beverage into the cups, and handing her one.

There was something familiar about his face and the sweet tenor tone of his voice, but she couldn’t place it. She sat down awkwardly across from him, her cup clinking nervously in the saucer.

“Your house looks like an old woman’s,” she blurted. He laughed. “Well, it hasn’t been redecorated in… a while.” He lifted his cup. “It’s not poisoned, you know.”

Nevertheless, he was watching a little too close for comfort as she brought the rim to her lips.

It tasted differently than she’d imagined; expecting something herbal, she was surprised to find it quite sweet and smooth. After the first sip, she felt warmth enter her body; after the second her limbs felt whole and strong.

By the third… he was pulling the cup from her hands, and she made a small noise of protest. He looked alarmed, “Dear lord girl you’ve been starving for years slow down.”

A shock ran through her. “Wh-what?” He quickly composed himself, setting the cup down.

“I’m sorry, I should have told you earlier.”

She blinked hard; his face seemed to have changed before her eyes, eyes drawing closer together, hair becoming slightly darker and unruly, not bad looking, just… unperfected.

“You!” she said shocked. “Me,” he replied grimly. “You where Wings’ social worker! H-how did you--?” “
Change? Quite simple, really. This is just an illusion; one of the perks of being an angel, not unlike you and Louisa.”

She realized her mouth had fallen open and quickly closed it. She sputtered, “But how can any of this be…?”

The man did something then that shocked Delia; he picked up cup and threw it. She didn’t have a moment to yell before it all stopped, cup floating in mid air, dark liquid trailing behind it like a comet’s tail. The birds seemed to have frozen in mid chirp, and even the dust motes were still.

“Real? It just is.” His lips tweaked into a smile. The liquid backtracked into the cup and fell in his hand. “Of course,” he amended, “I am not a full angel.”

His face grew weary and he slumped onto the couch. “But after this fiasco, I’m not sure I deserve to become one.” He sighed and said, voice bitter, “I was supposed to find the two of you. You were lost when you were just fledglings. We can’t survive on human sustenance, or have our powers berserk for long.”

His head fell into his hands. “I was stupid. If I had looked harder and moved sooner, Louisa might still be alive.” He sounded so broken; her heart went out to him.

Anger and guilt overwhelmed her so strongly it almost knocked her off her feet. She swooned, and he leapt to his feet, catching her by the wrists.

“No, Delia,” he whispered, “not for me, never for me. I‘m sorry, I need to control myself.” He stood up and began to pace.

“It’s just… it’s not right. We’re immortal. We shouldn’t die, so when one of us does…” He trailed off, then snorted. “Oh, by the way, and I’m obligated to tell you Louisa has gone straight to the top, become a white angel, if that’s any consolation.”

His last words were dripping sarcasm, and she could feel his disgust. “What’s going on?” she said in shock. “You’re empathizing, or saddling my emotions. It’s one of the things we do, but if you don’t know how to use it properly--” his eyes meet hers and held--“you’ll drown in them.”

She let out a harsh breath. His face softened. “You need to let go of people’s sorrow over Louisa, or you’ll break. I’ve seen it happen.” Delia swallowed. “But what if it means I’ll forget her?” He smiled.

“You wouldn’t.” She wished she were half as sure.

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The man had left. Delia stood alone at the window, watching the fall leaves through the yellowed glass. “Let it go,” she muttered, eyes slipping closed. She thought of Wings, of her heart, bright and beautiful, awakening her pain. “This is not me.” She sighed, eyes springing open.

Her heart still ached, but the aching was hers, and everything was clear, undimmed