by Nikki Morgan
'Within these walls lies the secret to you being with Evie, the key to unlocking that which has been purposely hidden from you; the Fallen, your means to being with Evie. I have told you that, I tell you the truth. Not Her!'
'You're just trying to confuse me, to make me doubt-'
'Believe that if it makes it easier,' said Hyperion shrugging, 'But don't tell me I didn't warn you, or give you a way out. You can be with Evie, the information is out there if you are willing to take it. But I can see you are too much of a coward and would rather stay in the dark!'
'I don't believe you!' How could it be true?
'Believe me or don't. I couldn't give a damn either way. Your little love affair is of no importance to me!' he said. 'Now, I must be off, enjoy your reading.' His face lit up with a wide smile as he released his wings, ecstasy running down his spine.
I couldn't move, my eyes were transfixed by the beauty of his wings as they opened, a thousand shimmering feathers of fire. I imagined that this is how Hell felt. He formed a fist with his right hand, and before I had chance to react, he threw himself forward and punched the marble floor. The ground began to shake as fire bubbled, like molten lava, up through the hole.
'Don't do this,' I warned, struggling to keep the chaos raging inside me under control.
'What? This?' Hyperion boomed, as he pounded the floor again and again with his hand of gold.
Cracks of fire appeared in the floor and it was as if he were knocking through to Hell. There was a resounding crack as the ceiling fractured above us, sending large chunks of jagged marble raining down, distracting me just for the smallest of moments, and when I looked up again, Hyperion had gone, with only the smell of burnt flesh and destruction left behind in his wake.
But I could feel his imprint left on my flesh like a stain; it had penetrated through my skin.
What if Hyperion was right? Had Death lied to me? Could I really be with Evie as one of The Fallen?
The whole place was crumbling around me; I had to get out. And yet...
I frantically looked around. I looked at the leather book in my hands. Where would I find a book on The Fallen? I spun around on my heels, consumed by the need to find out. I ran down the corridor I had come from and back to the circular atrium, the ground splitting and hissing as I ran, the heat burning into the soles of my feet, and yet I felt no pain. I was driven by something that knew no pain.
I rounded the corner, and found that the floor above me was now starting to slide through the hole I had made earlier. The whole building was unstable. I had to act fast before the whole of the Castel collapsed on top of me. I climbed over the piles of rubble trying to work out where I would find a book on the Fallen, but I didn't know where to start looking.
I turned around just as a huge rumble brought a large section of masonry down, setting off a chain reaction around the atrium as other large blocks crashed to the floor. It was no use, I had to get out of there.
I clutched the book against my chest. How could I have been so close and yet leave empty handed? But I had no choice, I had to run before the building claimed me. I took the only exit I could see and ran. And now that I was running I could not look back, even when I could feel the corridor collapsing behind me.
The dust was clawing at my lungs, drying my mouth out and making it difficult to breathe. How I hated being a freak. Half angel, half human; weak and feeble!
I fled down the corridor, my wings burning on my back, desperate to burst out and take me away from there. But I couldn't let them emerge; they would only hinder me in such a constricted space.
And then I saw light at the end of the tunnel. I ran straight for it, the air in my lungs burning in my chest. I flung myself through the opening and into the dawn, taking a good gulp of fresh air, and finally letting my wings explode from my back.
The pain ripped through my body as they burst violently through my skin. My mind went black and my body went limp. I fell forwards onto the cold damp floor. I scraped at the ground trying to regain control over my body, to fight the pain.
I took to the sky, not looking back until I reached the relative safety of the dome of Saint Peter's. I landed on the ornate dome for a brief respite from the pain. I folded my wings back, and turned to sit down on the apex, just below the spire. The view over Rome was now distorted, corrupted like the angel I had been sent to find. The Ponte Sant' Angelo, the bridge that used to run over the Tiber had fallen into the river, its Bernini angels lost to the churning waters. As the Castel continued to collapse, great chunks of masonry fell into the raging river with a boom, sending waves of discontent rolling down the Tiber, washing away anything in its path. Boats, trees, walls, all fell to the raging torrent.
Sirens blared from every direction as the chaos took hold, blue and white lights flashed as ambulances and the police rushed to the scene of the devastation. But I couldn't think about that now, my head was like the confusion unfolding before me on the streets of Rome; torn between guilt (for what I'd done in bringing this anarchy to pass) and my anger at myself, at Hyperion, at Death. I'd saved Evie, believed Death, and listened to Hyperion. But now what? Who was I to believe? Was Death really lying to me? Was I only some tiny pawn in a sick game between Her and Hyperion?
I sat, cross-legged, on the dome of Saint Peter's, the Castel Sant' Angelo destroyed. How many people had died today? I should've been used to death, to destruction, but my heart felt like lead inside me.
I couldn't look anymore. I didn't want to see my fellow Angels of Death arriving to take away the dead.
Instead I looked at the cover of the book still clasped in my hands. "The Apocalyptic Relics" read the golden Angelic Script on the leather cover. I opened it and roared as fury ripped through me. The pages had been torn out, replaced instead by sheets of blank paper. One by one I grabbed the imposters from the cover and scrunched them up, throwing them away so that they cascaded down the dome like snow. Only one page from the original text remained, and over it, someone had scribbled the words "The Fallen", in thick red letters.
I ripped the page from the book, letting the cover clatter down the dome, and with a roar of defiance, I took off into the sky.
Josh
I wanted to see Death. I wanted Her to tell me Hyperion was wrong. I wanted to know the truth.
But no matter how much I raged at her, or how high I flew, She wouldn't see me. She wouldn't allow me to return to the Other Side.
I was left with nothing but the stormy sea of thoughts churning in my head.
What if Hyperion was right? Was Death lying to me? Could She have made me a Fallen? Could I really be with Evie?
What if...
What if the only way to find out was now lost to me, hidden under tons of rubble in Rome?
I stared at my reflection in the gilt mirror hanging on the wall of the apartment I'd managed to charm my way into. I hated what I'd had to resort to, what I'd become; a trickster, a shadow. My eyes were dull and lifeless, ringed by black, my face pale and gaunt.
I turned away, disgusted, and punched the wall, my anger wrapping me up in its violent arms.
But, in the depths of my madness, one thing still held true; my love for Evie.
I had tried so hard not think about her, to save myself the pain after saying goodbye, but now...now she seemed to be the only light in the dark. Although my wings had gone, the mark left on my back, as black as a tattoo, burned and throbbed with the thought of her. It was a pain that I now welcomed because it brought memories of Evie with it.
I imagined her reading on her window seat, her legs tucked under her, her fingers delicately playing with the silver key on the chain around her neck, her ebony hair pulled up into a ponytail. I tried to conjure in my mind the strawberry scent of her hair, the soapy aroma of her skin and dreamed of what it would be like to kiss those dusky pink lips.
But Hyperion's word intruded on my thoughts, like the ghosts of those left unburied; 'the Fallen, your key to being with Evie.'
I should've stayed away.
But that would've been like trying to catch snow when it already had fallen into the ocean.
I had to see her.
I ran into the night with only that thought in my mind.
I reached the dis-robed oak tree at the edge of the park, opposite her house. I would've stayed there as long as it took just to see her again, maybe then I would know what to do, who to trust?
I looked up at the waning moon, barely visible beneath the thick veil of cloud. If only I was still an Angel of Death, then I'd have been able to drift in the window and see her.
The screech of a fox pierced the silence as it scampered across the road, oblivious to my suffering.
And yet, the whole world suffered but I couldn't see it.
I was losing my mind.
Evie
The Sandman's magic wasn't working very well; I woke up early (again), before the birds had even started their winter chorus. I pulled my duvet over my head trying to block out the the sounds of morning, but it was no good, my mind was too alert, so I gave up and got out of bed. I looked out the window hoping that the snow had turned to ice and another day off school, but it was now nothing more than slush, clinging onto life in small pockets where it hadn't melted.
My stomach turned over, my heart thumped against my chest. I didn't want to go to school, I didn't want to face the day, and yet, when I looked around my room and felt the empty space pushing down on me, the absence of company and of sound, I didn't want to stay at home either. I didn't know where I belonged anymore, I was stuck in some sort of No Man's land.
In the end, I left the house early, defeated by the noisy silence.
Before long I found myself at the Old Bridge that straddled the river Tame, the scene of the "accident". It was the first time I'd been back since, and I didn't really know why I had returned; it wasn't as if I'd made a conscious decision to go there, but my feet, by some compulsion of their own, had brought me back. I walked to the centre of the bridge, the scene of the crime, driven by something deep inside, an aching for something I'd lost, or maybe it was something I'd never had. I don't know, but the ache was there, right at the bottom of my ribcage.
I stopped at the point where I'd jumped and looked out over the river. The willow tree still sighed at its bank, its long drooping branches still skimming the glass-like surface of the water, the spire of St John's silhouetted against the sky as the morning's sun began to bloom.
Life was still happening, right there in front of me.
And whatever it was that I'd lost, wasn't to be found here.
I watched the world go by, me stuck in the centre, on some kind of eternal pause, as everyone around me whizzed by like they were on fast forward. Everything was out of my control and their wasn't a thing I could do about it.
At school, Sam watched me like all day, scrutinising my every move, waiting for me to do what exactly? He was putting me on edge.
I sat in the middle of the art room, a large blank canvas in front of me, planning my piece on Sabre, my kick-ass warrior girl, the final piece on this theme before we started a new topic. I could feel Sam's eyes burning on the back of my neck so I turned around and caught him looking at me, a strange expression on his face. I pulled a face back at him, and mouthed the word "what?" but he just shook his head and turned away.
The art room was set on the upper floor of the main school building, a converted Victorian Workhouse, which was totally unsuitable light for painting but I loved it anyway. It was dark but full of charm with its exposed beams and heavy wooden work benches, dented and plastered with paint. The white washed walls were covered with giant canvases smeared in every colour, every texture and every theme you could think of. I loved it here, in my world of colour and dreams; it was the one place where I didn't feel a freak, the only place that I felt like I belonged. And on the wall, looking down at me, like a Guardian Angel, was a portrait I'd done of my father in pencil.
Miss Powell, the art teacher, glided over to me, a small pile of sketches in her paint splattered hands, her blonde hair long and wild. She always reminded me of The Lady of Shalott in the John William Waterhouse painting we'd studied in year nine.
'Ah, Evelyn, got anything for me?'
'Er, yes,' I said, moving the canvas in front of me to reach my sketches, 'there you go.'
'Thank you,' she said, looking through them, 'these are really good, you should be proud of them.'
She took a sharp intake of breath, and my stomach tensed.
'Evelyn, you could be an A-star student, but you need to make sure you attend classes and get your work in on time.'
I nodded my head but didn't say a word.
'Are you feeling better now?' she asked, clutching the sketches to her chest.
'Yes, thanks,' I said, but my words were fake and hollow.
'Okay, keep your attendance up because you don't want to make it any harder on yourself, okay? Lower sixth form is really important to build up your portfolio.' She turned to walk away and then stopped, turning back to face me. 'Oh, I forgot, this was left on my desk for you,' she said, giving me a small white envelope with my name scribbled on it.
‘Thanks,’ I said, taking it from her.
I waited for her to go before I slid my thumb under the corner of the envelope. It came away easily, as the glue was still slightly damp. The crisp white paper smelt of perfume or after shave, it was a floral scent which seemed really familiar, although I couldn't place from where. I unfolded the paper and read the short printed note.
Evelyn,
Sorry about the other day, I just didn’t know what to do or what to say. The truth is, I’ve been thinking about you a lot since I found you at Christmas. If you feel the same way, meet me after school at the back of the basketball court,
Dex.
My heart seemed to jump into my throat as I read the words, then read them again. I folded the note up and dropped it in my bag.
The art lesson dragged. I tried not to think about meeting Dexter after school but my heart was racing, my mind imagining what could be.
What if, what if...
I couldn’t quite get the composition right on my board and now it was just a mish-mash of pencil lines and rubbed out smudges. I’d have to white it over with paint and start again. My heart just wasn't in it. My heart nor my head. The lines just seemed to move on their own, to almost get up and move themselves across the canvas.
Waiting for home-time was like crawling down a very long, painfully rough road on my hands and knees. The bell went for lunch and I ran from the art room as fast as I could, deliberately avoiding Sam. I felt awful, he was my best friend but I couldn't talk. So many things were rolling around in my mind that I might just let it all spew out if I started speaking. But some things were only for me, and I didn't know if I could hold everything in my head.
I sat in the corner of the cafeteria picking at my egg mayo sandwich when Sam slipped into the red plastic chair in front of me.
‘You okay?’ he said, his eyebrow raised so far that I thought it might take off at any moment.
‘Yeah,’ I replied, not taking my eyes off the drying crust of the sandwich.
‘Are you sure?’ he said, putting his cold hand over mine to stop me picking.
‘I said so, didn’t I?’ I didn't want to do this. Not now. Not today.
‘You would tell me if there was anything wrong-‘
‘You know I would,’ I said, looking into his eyes really hard without blinking. I tried sending him telepathic messages that I was telling the truth.
‘We’ve been friends for so long Ev, I thought you could trust me-‘
‘What are you on about?’ I said, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible, acting like I hadn’t got the foggiest idea what he was talking about, whilst trying to contain the tide of my thoughts, like King Canute.
He sighed, looking at me like I was a naughty two year-old. ‘The photo?’
‘Oh,’ I said, trying to sound as ca
sual as possible, 'that.’
‘Yeah, that. Care to explain?’
‘Why?’ Suddenly my hackles raised and my defences went up.
‘Why? What do you mean, why? You try and kill yourself and you just sit there and say why?’
‘What are you talking about, I have not tried to kill myself! If I had I would’ve made sure I’d finished the job properly,' I said, hating myself as the lies fell easily from my mouth. How had this chasm opened up in our friendship? 'That photo you’re talking about is part of an art project thing I’m doing-‘
‘An art project? What art project? You really expect me to believe that?’
‘Believe what you want,’ I said, rising from my chair, ‘people usually do anyway.’ I dropped the sandwich on the plate, grabbed my bag and bounded to the toilets, trying to look as hurt as possible.
I stayed, locked in that toilet through all of lunchtime, listening to the traffic of girls coming and going, laughing, crying, vomiting. I suppose we all had our own issues to deal with. I used to be friends with a lot of those girls - Danni, Max and Sara - before all this happened, before I lost myself.
The bell went for Registration. I picked myself off the toilet lid, took a deep breath and strode out into the crowds with their painted faces and fake smiles.
‘Hey,’ said Sam as I emerged. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, standing up from where he'd been leaning against the wall which was covered in careers posters. One was for the army. That sounded like a great idea, running away to join the army, to leave all this crap behind. Even better, I could've run away to the Foreign Legion.
God, he hadn't been waiting there all that time had he? ‘It’s okay,’ I replied, the hate I felt for myself deepening with every word that came out of my mouth. ‘There’s no need to worry,’ I said, looking intently into his eyes, ‘I’m fine. Promise.’ And when I said it like that, I almost believed it myself.
‘Come on,’ he said smiling, although the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes as it usually did, ‘We better get to Registration.’
