Dead Angels

by Tim O'Rourke

  During the hours that I spent alone down by the lake, I would read the books that Melody had borrowed from the library. Then, one spring afternoon as the sun sparkled across the lake, I started to write my first story. It was slow going, but once I had decided to write about the things I had seen and learnt about the humans, my pencil was flying across the scraps of paper I had brought with me from below ground. I didn’t share these stories with anyone, not even Melody.

  As I sat stooped over my notes, lost in my own little world, I caught sight of someone coming down the shore towards me. I glanced up to see that it was Melody, but something wasn’t quite right. She was limping. She dragged her rucksack on the ground beside her with one hand, and in the other I could see she was holding a piece of white paper. I stuffed my notes into my trouser pocket and trotted over to join her.

  “Give me that,” I said, taking the bag from her. “What’s that?” I asked, nodding at the piece of paper.

  “A copy of the school dress code,” she replied, screwing it up and tossing it away.

  “What’s happened?”

  “A good whipping, that’s what happened,” she grunted and shuffled forward.

  Helping her down onto the sand, she winced in pain. “It’s the back of my legs, cut to ribbons they are.”

  “Your mum whipped you, didn’t she?” I glared, feeling a well of anger swell up inside of me.

  Melody nodded.

  “How do you feel?” and straight away, I regretted asking such a stupid question.

  “Awful,” she replied through clenched teeth.

  “Why did she do it?” I asked, sitting beside her.

  “A teacher noticed that I was wearing nail varnish,” she explained. “I forgot that I was wearing it. You’re not allowed to wear it at school. It’s not a big deal, really, but they called my mum. She came up to the school and took me home. She said the usual crap about how the devil was tempting me – and that only whores wear makeup.”

  “Where is she now?” I snapped, and I couldn’t ever remember feeling so angry before. I felt as if I was changing inside somehow, just like Bruce Banner from the comic books that Melody had read to me. My teeth began to ache inside my gums, my fingers started to throb and I clenched my fists. The scars running down the lengths of my arms started to burn and I could feel those little black claws forcing their way out beneath my arms. But there was something else; I could smell blood, the blood which was seeping from the cuts on the backs of Melody’s legs. Even though they were hidden from view by her dress, I wanted to taste that blood that dripped from them.

  “Where’s your mother now?” I asked again, my voice almost a growl.

  “She’s praying for me,” Melody said. Her brow was creased and she added, “Isidor, are you all right?”

  “No,” I said, taking a step away from her, one hand over my nose to block out the smell of her blood. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Go where?” she asked, looking hurt. “I need you.”

  “Sorry,” I almost gagged, then turned and fled.

  “Isidor!” Melody called after me.

  But I didn’t stop. I raced up the shore and into the woods, my heart thumping in my ears. I needed to get back beneath ground – it was like The Hollows were calling to me. But there was another part of me that wanted to stay – that wanted blood and I knew whose blood I needed. Melody’s mother’s blood. I wanted to rip her fucking heart out and eat it for what she had done to Melody. As I ran, my claws shot from my fingertips. Using them like a set of razorblades, I sliced my coat into a series of ribbons that flew away behind me. I threw my arms open wide on either side of me and released my wings. Then, throwing myself forward, I yanked back the grate that covered the hole and dived inside. I tumbled down the tunnel. Over and over I went, my wings brushing the walls. I hit the bottom. Slamming my fists into the ground, I screamed into the darkness.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Isidor

  I didn’t return above ground for a few days. I was sick. In my bed, deep within the Ageless Hill, my body felt as if it were on fire. My mother sat beside me, not once did she leave my side, soaking the sweat from my body with a wet towel. I hungered for the blood that had smelt so sweet as it had ran from Melody’s cuts. I had never felt the need for blood before. I had heard rumours that Vampyrus could only stay for so long above ground before the cravings became too much and they had to return to The Hollows. Would the pains that set my soul on fire ever ease? Would they ever go, so I could return above ground? I had to go back. I had to see Melody again.

  On the third day, my fever broke and those gut-wrenching pains eased and finally disappeared. I opened my eyes to find my mother sitting beside me, a shawl about her shoulders. She looked tired and drawn.

  Seeing my eyes open, she got up from her chair and came to kneel beside me. “Isidor,” she whispered and kissed me softly on my brow. “You went above ground, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said, my throat feeling sore.

  “Why?” she asked, but she didn’t sound angry, just scared. What frightened her so much, I didn’t understand at that time. I didn’t know then, that she was my aunt and not my mother. I think she must have feared I would find out the truth somehow.

  “I just had to see it for myself,” I croaked, and she handed me a cup of water. I sipped at it until the pain in my throat eased.

  “Promise me you won’t go back,” she said, brushing the hair from my forehead.

  “I can’t promise that, mother,” I said, handing her the cup.

  “Why not?” and I could see tears standing in her eyes. It was like she believed that she would lose me – like I might never come back again.

  “I just have to see someone,” I said. “I just have to see my friend.”

  “Who?”

  “A girl,” I said. “I can’t just leave her. She has helped me so much.”

  “Helped you with what?” Mother asked me.

  “With everything,” I told her, and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. It was freezing cold, and I shivered.

  “You’re still ill, Isidor,” she said, trying to throw a blanket around my shoulders.

  “I’m fine,” I tried to convince her.

  “Wait just a few more days, then go,” she said, and I read the fear in her eyes.

  “What are you so scared of?” I asked softy.

  “You’re different to them,” she said, and gently stroked my face.

  “We’re all different, and that’s good, isn’t it?” I said, pulling on my clothes.

  I stood in the alcove and looked back at her. “I love you, mum,” I smiled.

  “Isidor, don’t fall in love with a human,” she warned me. “It will only lead to heartache.”

  “How do you figure that?” I asked her.

  “Because we are not like them and they are not like us,” she said. “You will have to lead a life of lies and deceit. You could never tell her what you truly are. It is forbidden for the Vampyrus and humans to breed. If you don’t love yourself, Isidor, then love this girl enough not to deceive her. Come back to The Hollows before you cause her any hurt.”

  With my mother’s warning ringing in my ears, I went back above ground.

  I headed through the woods and down towards the lake in search of Melody. It had been four days since I had last seen her. Had she believed that I had gone for good – never to come back? I had to see her, explain if I could, why I had fled that day, and left her when she had needed me most.

  With the wind pulling at my hair and clothes, I raced down to the shore, but I couldn’t see Melody. I headed for the bush where we had spent so many days together. In the middle sat the ashes of the burnt out fire she had lit to keep us warm. She wasn’t there, either. The only other place that I could think of finding her was home.

  So, it was with some trepidation that I approached Melody’s house and knocked on the door. I hadn’t seen her mum since I had hidden in the wardrobe. I knocked on the door. After seve
ral moments of waiting patiently, the door swung slowly ajar and Melody’s mum peered at me through the gap she had created. Her face looked older than I pictured it to be. She had deep lines around her nose and mouth. Her hair was darkish grey and her lips looked taught and puckered.

  “Hello,” I said. “My name is Isidor Smith.”

  “What do you want?” she asked suspiciously.

  “I was hoping I could speak with your daughter.”

  “Daughter? What Daughter?” she said. “I haven’t got a daughter.”

  “Yeah, you do,” I said confused. “Melody.”

  “Nope, sorry, you’re mistaken. Never had no daughter – never had any children,” she insisted.

  I wondered if she was madder than I first thought, or had she completely cut Melody out of her life and memory because of what she had done? Could her mother be that ashamed of her?

  “Please can I see her?” I asked, feeling desperate now.

  “Are you mad?” she croaked.

  No, but you are - I was tempted to say, but bit my tongue.

  “Go away!” she cursed as she went to shut the door in my face.

  I planted my foot between the door and the frame, forcing it open.

  “Get your foot out of my door before I call the cops!” she threatened.

  “You do have a daughter and her name is Melody...” I started.

  “Yakadee - Yakadee - Yak!” she cackled. “I ain’t listening because I never had no daughter! Now get off my porch!”

  I realised I was wasting my time and probably stirring up more trouble for Melody. So I withdrew my foot from her door, which she instantly closed in my face. I stepped away and moved towards the steps leading from her porch and then suddenly, I turned back and shouted at the closed door, “You say you’re a religious woman! Well if you are - pray for your own soul, because you’re gonna need all the prayers that you can get, you old witch.”

  I then stepped off her porch and walked away. I hadn’t gone far, when I looked back at the house, and there looking back at me from the upstairs front window was Melody. Standing in the lane that cut through the fields to her house, I raised my hand in the air and waved. I couldn’t help the stupid grin that cut across my face. I was so happy to see her again. Instead of waving, Melody pressed the flat of her hand to the windowpane and hung her head.

  Then, not caring who saw me, or how different I was to anyone else, I slowly removed my coat. It dropped to the ground, and then raising my arms, I looked up at the window to see Melody staring down at me once more, her hand still pressed against the window as if reaching out for me. Without taking my eyes from hers, I opened my arms and let my wings unfold. As they did, I could feel my feet lifting from the ground. With the wind snagging at my hair, I glided up to her window. I hovered outside as she stared back at me. She was either gonna freak out and run away, or she was...

  Melody pushed open the window. “Isidor, are you an angel?” she asked me softly.

  “I don’t come from heaven, if that’s what you mean,” I smiled.

  “Where do you come from?” she whispered, still not taking her eyes from mine.

  “Below ground,” I told her.

  “So you’re a dead angel?” she whispered over the sound of the wind that blew about the eaves.

  Reaching through the open window, I took her hand and placed it against my chest so she could feel my racing heart. “Do I feel dead?” I asked her.

  “No,” she breathed. “Why is your heart beating so fast?”

  I didn’t want to tell her the reason – I couldn’t. So instead, I lifted her into my arms and said, “Let’s be us – just for one day.”

  Then, rolling my shoulders back, I soared up into the sky with her wrapped in my arms. I carried her up into the clouds and it was freedom. I soared high, and Melody clung to me. We spiralled over the fields, hills, and mountains. The feeling of not having to hide my wings or who or what I really was felt incredible. To share that moment with Melody was wonderful.

  We swooped out of the sky and gently landed on the shore by the lake. With Melody still in my arms, I untied the strings that held her bonnet in place and removed it. And just like the girl, Rapunzel, her hair fell free, spilling over her shoulders and down her back in thick coils. It was the first time I had seen her hair free and I gasped as it shone in the fading sunlight.

  “Don’t you like it?” she asked me nervously.

  “It’s beautiful,” I told her, losing my hands deep within its curls. It felt like silk running over my fingers.

  Then gently, she ran the tips of her fingers across my wings, and down the length of my scars. “That’s why you fled that day, wasn’t it?” she said mesmerised.

  “Yes,” I told her. “I could feel myself changing and I thought you would be scared of me.”

  “I always wondered what these scars were,” she said thoughtfully.

  “Why didn’t you ask?”

  “It was your secret and I knew that you would tell me one day – when you were ready,” she said.

  “You’re not scared of me?” I asked her, my heart still racing.

  “How could I be scared of an angel?” she whispered, looking up at me. “Angels help people, don’t they? They watch over you and make sure you are safe. I always knew that you were different from the others, and now I know why.”

  “Thank you,” I smiled, our faces so close now that the tips of our noses were almost touching. I wanted to kiss her, but didn’t know if I should.

  “Thank you for what?” she breathed, and her breath felt warm against my cheek.

  “For liking me for who I am. For not wanting to put me in a cage and open me up to see how I work. For not laughing at me because I couldn’t read and write,” I told her.

  “Thank you for not being cruel to me for how I dress and the way I live. Thank you for taking the loneliness away. I was so tired of being lonely, Isidor.”

  Hearing her say this broke my heart as I knew that I couldn’t stay. I would have to go back to The Hollows. I couldn’t forget my mother’s warning, and I didn’t want to hurt Melody by staying because we could never be together. Neither could I live with being tempted by the need for human blood. If I went, my cravings would certainly go, but her loneliness would return. Not having the courage to tell her just yet, I took her hands in mine and said, “I’ve got something for you.”

  “What?” she asked, her eyes brightening.

  I led Melody up the shore to our makeshift camp in the bushes. Once inside, we sat down. As I reached into my pocket, Melody rummaged around in the undergrowth and pulled a stale pack of cigarettes from beneath some moss. She lit one. From my pocket, I took the notes that I had been writing on.

  “What’s that?” she asked me.

  “It’s not very good,” I said.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a story I’ve written,” I explained. “I’m going to write more. I’m going to call them Isidor’s Penny Dreadfuls.”

  “Why call them that?” she asked, looking confused.

  “Because they’ll be so dreadful that people probably wouldn’t even pay a penny for them,” I half-laughed.

  “What’s it about?” she asked, eagerly moving closer towards me.

  “It’s a story about the things I’ve seen and learnt about above ground,” I explained. “I wrote it for you.”

  With a smile on her lips and eyes bright, she said, “Isidor, I want to hear you read one of your own stories.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked her.

  “Just read, Isidor, that’s what you always wanted to do, isn’t it?”

  So, with Melody resting her head against my shoulder, and my first Penny Dreadful in my hand, this is the story that I read to her.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘A Special Friend’

  By

  Isidor Smith

  Michael Blake swung his legs over the side of the bed and fixed his thin, fragile feet firmly to the wooden floor. The boa
rds which lined the floor of his poky bedroom were rough and he had lost count of how many times he had picked splinters from the balls of his feet. The sheets lay grey and unwashed at the foot of his bed.

  Michael sat hunched forward, and warmed his bare shoulders by rubbing them vigorously with his hands. He raised his pale and gaunt face and peered about the dimly-lit room. His grey eyes were ringed with dark, sleepless shadows. Michael stood up on two bony legs and gave a long tired yawn. He arched his back and stretched out his arms, hoping the tiredness would leave him. As he did this, his skimpy vest rose upwards, showing off a set of ribs, which stuck through his skin like rungs on a ladder. He was way too thin for fourteen. Michael let his body relax and the vest dropped back into place, covering his emaciated body once again. He preferred it like that. He crossed the room and pulled back the curtains and looked out at the new day.

  It was still dark outside and lights glimmered in the bedroom and kitchen windows from the house across the street. A milk float could be heard as it turned into the street. It rattled, jangled, and hummed as it came. The milk float stopped. Michael watched the driver get out, collect a crate of milk, and deliver bottles to the house across the street. Michael knew that he wouldn’t be getting any milk today as his father hadn’t been able to pay the bill. Michael let go of the curtain and it swung back into place. He turned and dressed for school.

  Michael switched on the light and the bare bulb was hardly powerful enough to light the room. His bedroom was bare. The only furniture he had was his bed and a chair on which he hung his clothes. Beside his bed sat a small table and on this was an old fashioned looking alarm clock. He screwed up his eyes and peered at the hands on it. They read half past seven. The alarm clock might have been old, but it was never wrong. The walls inside his room were also bare, apart from his friend, that is.

  Michael’s friend was Marilyn Monroe. The poster of her hung alone on his wall. She wasn’t like an everyday friend. Marilyn had been dead fifty years and had died thirty-six years before he had been born. But the picture of her was special to him. It was company for Michael and he needed that badly. He had no mother and a father who was interested in climbing into a bottle of Jack Daniels instead of spending time with him. Michael didn’t have any friends, either. He was the school scapegoat. Every school had one. So Michael took comfort by believing that Marilyn was his friend. Just his. But of course she wasn’t. Marilyn was dead. Michael didn’t trouble himself with such thoughts because he knew that they were special friends. He knew he wasn’t mad, he knew he didn’t imagine the conversations he had with her. At first Michael thought he was losing the plot, but after she had changed position in the poster on the wall and had joked, “It’s so tiring standing in the same pose,” he was sure it was for real. But if Michael were to be honest with himself, he did have doubts. But he had no one to confide in and even if he had, would they have believed him? Would you?