by K. A. Hobbs
“Did somebody order coffee?” I say with far more cheer in my voice than I feel.
“I certainly did.” Imogen smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes or help convince me she’s okay.
“Strong and sweet, just how you like it,” I say spiritedly, lifting her cup with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on and handing it to her with a grin.
“I’m not even going to complain about the choice of mug,” she says, attempting another smile and failing miserably.
I offer one in return, but it falls flat when I see the way her hands shake as she lifts the cup to her lips. Rubbing my palms over my trousers nervously, I sit stiffly in the other chair and begin to pick at a loose thread on the cushion, willing George to say something to break the painfully awkward silence that’s descended over the room. Without Imogen to keep the conversation and the jokes flowing, we are both a little lost, adrift in a sea of social anxiety that leaves the entire room mute.
“I hope you don’t think us rude, Molly, but I think Imogen needs to recover from her, ah, ordeal. Would it be terribly impolite for us to head back? We’ll finish our coffee, of course,” he adds with a smile.
I don’t want to admit to feeling some relief because I have no idea what that says about me as a person but I’m pretty sure it’s not good. Shaking my head from side to side a little too quickly, I jump back to my feet, almost taking the tray with my coffee still sitting on it with me. “No, no, I understand. That’s fine. I mean… You will let me know you’re okay, won’t you, Immy?”
She looks at me with unfocused eyes and shakes her head a little, like she’s trying to snap out of a daydream or something. “Of course I will. I’ll just…” Her eyes dart to George then back to me. “I might need a couple of days. Will you be okay?”
Moving to her side, I reach out nervously and squeeze her shoulder lightly, a little afraid of breaking her. “Will you please stop thinking about other people and focus on yourself, just for five minutes. You don’t need to worry about me. I’m fine. I want you to get better, and…” I pause when my voice begins to quiver, swallowing down the lump that’s formed in my throat and dragging in a long breath. “Just get better, okay? The world needs Imogen Thomas in all her splendour.”
Turning to George, I level him with my best warning glare, my hand still sitting on Immy’s shoulder. “I’m counting on you to take care of her. I should warn you that she’s my best friend in the world and I have epic skills with a frying pan. So, just make sure you do everything to make sure she’s okay. I have no idea where you live but I have ways. You mark my words.”
He bows his head with a soft smile, reaching for Imogen’s hand and gripping it tightly. “You have my word,” he offers, meeting my glare with a reassuringly sincere expression.
I return his nod with a last flash of warning in my eyes before he pulls Immy from the couch easily. She allows him to pull her to his side, still in some sort of trance, and I smile to see he doesn’t drop her hand once she’s firmly upright.
“Hug,” I demand, stepping forward and wrapping my arms around my friend and squeezing tightly. Her arms drift slowly around me, but there’s no strength in her returning squeeze and her hand never leaves George’s. “Look after yourself,” I whisper into her ear. “And do as George says.”
She sighs deeply then takes a deep breath before replying. “You know, I might just do that. Got to happen once in a while, hasn’t it?”
“Will miracles never cease?” George mutters, his voice full of affection as he finally releases her hand, only to drape his arm around her shoulder instead and steer her towards the door.
He leads her out slowly, and I watch as he delicately maneuvers her down the steps into the biting cold night. I can’t understand where the day went. It doesn’t seem so long ago that it was bright daylight and I was ready to explore the beach with Imogen.
I stand at the door and watch them disappear into the night until the last trace of them is gone from my vision, then close the door and allow my head to fall against it with a small thump. Blinking rapidly, I try to clear the image of a vulnerable Imogen from my mind, but the idea of her as anything other than the superhero I’ve come to see her as is so alarming and unfamiliar that it’s all I can see. Scrubbing at my eyes, I move for the stairs, not even bothering to switch off the lights or tidy away the cups. I need my bed—need to wrap myself in the scent of my past and allow all the happiness of the distant hours to engulf me.
I don’t even kick my shoes off before dropping into the bed and pulling the duvet up high over my head, breathing the scent of him deeply into my lungs, waiting for the memories to assault me as they usually do. I wait… and I wait. But nothing comes. I can’t even conjure up an image of him in my head. His warm brown eyes have morphed into unsettlingly familiar green ones, his tidy hair exchanged for chaotic curls, and his cheeks have dipped into dimples that were never there before.
Stuffing my duvet against my mouth, I allow an agonised scream to tear free from my lungs and be swallowed up by the material at the horrifying realisation that it isn’t Ben’s arms I’m craving but Seb’s.
I don’t remember coming home.
I don’t remember getting undressed, or climbing into bed.
I don’t remember anything.
But I wake up comfortable, warm and definitely not alone.
I roll over and smile. George is sitting up in a chair that he’s pulled close to the bed, reading a big old book. He’s wearing his glasses and has changed into a big thick navy blue jumper. He looks, if it’s possible, even more intelligent than he usually does.
“Hey,” I croak, my voice still thick with sleep.
His eyes meet mine, and he places his book on the floor, leaning closer to me. “How are you feeling?”
I sit up a little and stretch out my tight muscles. “Stiff. And hungry, and like I made a massive fool out of myself with you and Molly.”
“Nonsense. You did no such thing. Molly is concerned. She could tell you weren’t okay, and I’m almost certain she suspects it wasn’t just down to the lack of food you told her it was. Can I get you something to eat?”
“What time is it?”
“A little after three am. What can I get you?” he asks, standing up and stepping closer still.
“A sandwich?”
He smiles. “Any specific requests?”
“No cheese. I don’t need anything encouraging nightmares.” I wrinkle my nose.
“I’ll raid the kitchen and be back.”
The second he leaves my room, the darkness feels like it swallows me whole, gripping me in its claws and demanding I return to my nightmares, back to the memories I fight so hard not to let consume me.
It’s okay.
It’s not real.
You’re safe.
I remind myself over and over, yet the darkness still consumes me. It claws at my mind leaving me no option but to relive my darkest, most terrifying moments.
Think of something nice. Think of George.
Curling myself into a ball, I run my thumb across the feather ring I never take off and think back to the day he first gave it to me, when I first discovered there are more ways to communicate as an angel than there are as a human.
“Imogen can I speak to you a minute?”
I look up from where I’m reclining in the big armchair by the fire getting lost in the magical world of Harry Potter, which doesn’t seem so far fetched now, and look at George.
He’s wearing navy chinos and a blue jumper, a white shirt framing his neck. His feet are sporting smart brown shoes and he’s wearing his black-framed glasses, his hair the usual untamed mess. He manages to walk the fine line between being nonchalant and over-styled perfectly, and it makes him astonishingly handsome.
“Of course.”
I get up and walk to where he’s waiting for me. He turns and holds open the big brown door, and I walk through. To my surprise, he leads me down the corridor to his quarters and holds another door ope
n that I know leads to his sitting room.
“Can I get you something to drink?”
“Umm… will I need it?” I frown.
He chuckles and sits down in the armchair opposite the sofa. “Not at all.”
I sit down on the sofa and smile. “Then no, thank you.”
“I need to give you something, and I need to explain how it works.”
“Go on.”
He holds his right hand up and wiggles his fingers at me. “This ring.”
Sitting on his middle finger is a feather ring made from what I think is silver. I’ve admired it many times before, and not just on George. Everyone here seems to have them.
“What about it?”
“This is a means of communication between angels. All you have to do is tap it and think about the person you need, and that person will feel it wherever they are, whatever they’re doing, and will tap their ring, which you will feel. And then, it’s a simple matter of thinking the words you wish the other to hear.”
“Sorry… what?” I laugh.
“It’s necessary to be able to communicate with one another. There will always be situations we need help with. This makes it possible. Think of it as our version of mobile telephones.”
“You’re telling me that is the angel equivalent of an iPhone?” I ask in disbelief.
“Precisely.” He beams.
“This world just keeps getting more insane.”
“It’s only just beginning. So here, this is for you.”
He leans forward and hands me a blue velvet pouch. I pull on the gold strings that keep it closed and look inside. Nestled in the velvet is a silver feather ring like George’s. I pull it out and hold it up to examine it.
It’s perfectly carved and brilliantly shiny. I slip it onto the same finger that George wears his and wiggle it.
“It’s the perfect size, thank you.”
“Anytime you need me, you just tap your ring and think of me. I’ll feel it and respond. If for whatever reason I can’t, please go to Leo. He’s my mentor and so naturally, he should be your go-to.”
“Okay.”
“Do you have any questions?”
I think for a few minutes and my mind comes up with nothing. “Not right now, but my mind tends to go blank when I’m put on the spot. Once I leave I’m sure I’ll have hundreds.”
I go to stand up and George stands, too. “Well, you know how to ask me if I’m not around now.”
I hold my hands up and grin, miming tapping my new ring. “You’re going to regret this.” I laugh.
“I’m positive I will not.”
When George returns, he doesn’t just have a sandwich; he has a tray full of delights.
He puts it on the bed and carefully removes his shoes. “May I?” he asks, gesturing to the bed.
“Of course.”
He climbs onto my white, flowery-print bed and stretches his legs out in front of him before placing the large tray between us. “I decided I was hungry also. And I know you enjoy cake, so I made what I hope is a correct assumption and guessed you’re rather partial to an afternoon tea. I know it’s nowhere near the afternoon, but would you like to have tea with me?”
My sad heart swells with emotion at his kindness, and I find myself fighting tears for what feels like the thousandth time in less than twenty-four hours. I simply nod and he smiles sadly at me.
“It’s understandable that you’re delicate, Imogen. I don’t think you’ve ever allowed yourself to grieve for what you lost or process what you went through. One thing alone is tremendously difficult. Both together must be completely overwhelming. I’m sincerely sorry I have not made you speak about it before. I feel my, ah, feelings for you may have hindered my duties as your mentor.”
“Please don’t. I wouldn’t have spoken even if you’d pushed. I don’t think I was ready before, and after experiencing a little of what it feels like to talk about it now, I don’t think I ever will be. You’ve helped in ways you cannot know, George.”
“I fully intend to help you in any way I can. It will get easier.”
He doesn’t speak any more after that, and I seem to have lost all ability to. He lifts the lid off the teapot and peers in before lifting it and pouring us both a cup. He adds the right amount of milk and hands it to me. “I know you don’t take sugar.”
“I think I’m sweet enough, don’t you?”
“I would have to agree, but only sometimes.” He grins.
We each eat our way through the delicious sandwiches and cakes, and when we’re both full and the tea is long gone, I settle back into the pillows and fight the sleep that’s trying to claim me. I know what will happen the second it does: dreams. So many dreams—always the same, always terrifying, and always practically impossible to wake up from.
I feel soft lips on my forehead as I lose the fight with the torturer that is sleep. “Rest. You’re safe.”
Sunshine.
The brightest sunshine I’ve ever known filters into my room, casting shadows and basking everything it touches in delightful warmth.
So why am I still so cold?
I sit up and wipe at my eyes, the tears I feel from the nightmare still clawing at me, scratching every part of my body and soul, making it almost impossible to take a deep breath.
But I do it.
In through my nose, out through my mouth.
In… out… in… out.
And slowly, my mind becomes my own again—slowly my mind doesn’t belong to my memories, or the nightmares. It belongs to me.
I pull my legs up to my chest and rest my chin on top of my knees, curling my arms around them. It’s a simple act, one of self preservation—one of protection.
Why haven’t they stopped? When will they stop?
George promised me they would, but in their own time.
In their own time, but what about mine? I’ve been ready for them to stop for months and yet they continue to cling to me. They continue to torment me night after night. I want to sleep without reliving the trauma. I want to sleep without remembering.
I just want to sleep.
I decide to go for a shower in the hope that the hot water can wash away the remainder of the dreams and the memories of yesterday. I step under the spray and completely collapse. The weight of everything seems to come crashing down on me with such force I can’t stay standing. The tears fall so fast, so freely, that I choke on them. There are so many of them I couldn’t tell you which are tears and which are from the shower anymore.
Suddenly, I’m experiencing grief like I never thought I would, and it’s all because of what happened to me. I’m grieving not only for the family I had stolen from me, but the life I will never lead. It feels like I’ve been hit by a freight train of emotion, and I can’t see a way to stop it. Nothing will ever stop the pain; nothing will ever make it easier, and I have no option but to live through it because I can’t go anywhere else. I can’t end this suffering.
I’m already dead, and even in death, I can’t find peace. I can’t feel numb.
I feel everything, and I know it’s a thousand times worse than anything any human can feel because angels feel everything so much more intensely.
Getting to my feet, I drag myself out of the water, hastily wrapping a towel around myself and not bothering to switch off the shower. I run to my bedroom and fling on the first clothes my hands land on, stuffing my feet into a pair of boots and grabbing my coat. I don’t care that my hair is wet. I don’t care that I’m not wearing underwear and I look a mess. I need to see my sister.
I need her to tell me everything will be okay. I need to hear her tell me one last time she loves me and to be wrapped in her arms. My feet take me where I need to be without my mind even being present. I find myself standing on the opposite side of the street looking at my sister’s house, trying to suck in lungfuls of breath while I try to decide how to do this.
Now I’m here, now I’m faced with the possibility of finally seeing her again, I’m s
cared.
I don’t know how I can explain to her what happened. I don’t know how to tell her I’m dead and yet… I’m alive.
I don’t know how to be in her life without hurting her.
I know I shouldn’t be here. I know there are rules in place for this very reason, because as much as it’s going to hurt Olivia, it’s going to be excruciating for me. This is why we can’t see our families. This is why George told me to stay away.
And then I see movement in the window…
It’s Olivia and the small, wriggly bundle that is my niece. Everything stops. Nothing exists except the two people I long to see.
I take a deep breath and look left and right, making sure the road is clear.
I walk across the wet road and step up onto the pavement. I’m inches away from my sister for the first time in so very long, and my heart starts to race. I put one foot in front of the other, closing the distance between us and then… I’m back in the gardens of the big house and there are strong arms around me. Strong, warm arms I’d usually do anything to be enveloped in, but now would do anything to be far away from.
“Stop it,” I yell, fighting to be free. “Let me go!”
“No, Imogen. Calm down,” George pants, struggling to keep me in his embrace.
“Let me go back. I don’t want to be here. I want… I want…”
The tears come again, choking me with their intensity. I kick and claw at him, anything to get him to release me from his clutches. Why can’t he see I’m breaking? Why can’t he let me do the one thing I know will help me?
