Angel Realms
The Dawn
of
Angels
By Vivienne Malynn &
Sean Kade
Chapter 1
I have wondered many times what would make a mother give up her only daughter. Was it hatred? Certainly not love. Fear? Or just plain insanity? What made my mother give me up? That’s the real question. One I may never know and continue to ask. I’m obsessed with it, always angry because of it. The counselors call it attachment issues and use it to explain why I am sitting in these hand cuffs with a police officer standing behind me and a social worker looking over my previous history, shaking her head as she flips through the pages. Several tisks and exaggerated sighs is the usual reaction from social workers that look through my prior history. This one’s no exception.
Since that day that my mother gave me up, I have been floating from one foster family to another. Well maybe ‘floating’ isn’t the best term for it. Perhaps a word that is livelier and denotes more clashes with the law would be more appropriate. In any case, it’s easy to say that this is not the first time I’ve been in this situation. The only thing that changes is the social worker. Most are short lived. I guess the stress of delinquents like me gets to them eventually.
This particular social worker is older, I’d say pushing mid-forties. Though she tries to keep her appearance under the middle age line. No wedding ring, still I can’t imagine she hasn’t been married before. Probably had a troubled past herself, married young to some guy. Abusive. Maybe even a drunk. Got out and figures she can make a difference with young girls like me, who she thinks are just like her. Social workers always think they know where you’re coming from. Of course, all this is just speculation. But you don’t go through the foster system without learning a little something about people and their motives. It’s always about motives.
Social Workers aren’t exactly motivated by money, so it has to be something else. Something more warm and fuzzy inside. I wouldn’t call it selfless though. There are no motivations that aren’t selfish in some way. The religious nut on his knees isn’t selfless; he’s just found another commodity to feed his ego that doesn’t rub too much against his conscience. Social workers find validation in helping people, that is until they find that theirs is a thankless job and so they move on to something else more fulfilling. That’s all we ever want, just to have our ego’s stroked. You do that for a person and you’ll have them eating out of your hand. It’s almost sad how easily we are manipulated by those around us.
So what’s my motivation? What stroke of the hand makes me purr like a kitten and jump through hoops? Well, I’m not as complicated as the counselors make me out to be. I’m just angry. That’s all. Angry at my mother. Angry at the system. Angry at the whole forsaken world. I’m even angry with God, and I’m not even sure whether I believe in Him or not. If there is something to be angry at, you can bet I’ll be angry at it.
I guess for as much as I try to rebel, I am just as manipulated by my own anger. My decisions are not my own, they are just counter to those that others want. I take no responsibility for anything I do and am therefore doomed to continue down this path of destruction. Of course, knowing that, you would think I would be able to change, but I can’t. I can’t give up the anger. No matter how much it hurts me, it is better than the pain that awaits those who open their hearts to this cruel world.
The social worker, who has already introduced herself as Ms. Garza, puts the file folder on the table and then pushes it aside, an obvious gesture of, ‘let’s put the past behind us and get all chummy-like.’ As she does, she makes sure to smile. Right on cue. A slight pause and then, “Well Kyra, it looks like you have quite a history in foster care.”
That’s the difference between the case workers and those in foster care. We call it ‘the system’ because that’s all it is, ‘care’ has nothing to do with it. I’m not saying that there aren’t a few good natured caretakers out there. But most of them won’t take troubled ones like me. Those who do take girls like me just want the check from Uncle Sam and to be left alone. Which is fine by me. But most of the time it’s not always that simple. There’s always something that complicates it.
“You’re in some serious trouble this time,” says the case worker, as if trouble is new to me. “The family wants to press charges.”
“It was self-defense,” I say.
“You took an aluminum bat to their boy’s face.”
“Boy?” I say with astonishment. “That boy is 23 and was getting a little too fresh for my taste.”
“What were you doing with him in the first place?”
“It was my birthday; I wanted to have some fun.”
“You were vandalizing property,” she says. “Cars.”
“Like I said, fun.” The truth is, I had nothing to do with the vandalism. But no one will believe that coming from a delinquent. The ‘boy’ and his friends decided to have a few too many, and began shattering windshields. I was the only sober one in the bunch. I refuse to drink. Not because of some religious thing, I’ve just seen too much of it from the other end, like when your foster parent comes home drunk and decides he needs to let out some frustration. I had spent four years in the foster system before I learned to stand up for myself. From then on, I decided that if any man laid a finger on me, he would regret it as the ‘boy’ found out. Of course, this philosophy doesn’t make for very good relations.
“I have one simple rule,” I continue. “You leave me alone and I will leave you alone. He broke that rule.”
“And so you broke his jaw,” adds the case worker with a deliberate show of disapproval.
“I’m just a little thing,” I say. “He was drunk and out of control. What else could I do?”
The silent police officer standing behind me chokes down a snicker. The case worker glares at him.
Maybe it was a little excessive. But with those kinds of guys, you have to make a clear message. Otherwise, they will think that they can take whatever they like. Besides, like I said before, I’m angry. Maybe Freud would say that I was taking out my aggression on men, but then again what does Freud know, he’s just a man. “So what are they going to do with me?” I ask, quite certain of what the answer will be. “Juve’?”
“Luckily, Mr. Hammond worked something out to keep you out of juvenile detention,” the case worker says. “It helped that the young man was intoxicated and was involved in the vandalism. We told them that we would not press charges for him contributing to the delinquency of a minor, as long as they dropped charges against you. Of course, I made it clear to Mr. Hammond that they should just throw the book at you.”
“Now that’s not a friendly thing to say,” I reply.
The case worker stands up and leans across the table, supporting herself on her sprawled finger tips. Her face is stern and serious. “I bet when you walked in here that you had me figured out,” she says without expression. “I bet you thought I was just another social worker that you could play. But I’m not. I’ve been in this work for more years than you’ve been alive. You think you’ve seen it all. You haven’t seen anything. I know girls like you. You think you’ve had a tough life—and maybe you have. So what. The fact is, you can keep going on the way you are, angry with men, God, the world—whatever. But at the end of the day, you’re only hurting yourself.”
Rising up and straightening her posture, she sighs for a breath and then continues, “I don’t know what happened to you, but I know what is going to happen to you if you don’t change your course. Juve’ is not the worst place you can end up.” She picks up the file folder and gestures at me with it. “You have one more year as a minor and then this discussion we’re having will be with a judge. And b
elieve me, your innocent girl routine won’t work. A judge won’t think twice about throwing you in prison.” She forcefully tosses the folder in front of me. Her point is clear.
Her words sting, not because of their harshness, but because I know deep down she’s right. Still, part of me, the angry part, refuses to submit to them. “Where’s Hammond,” I say, pushing the folder away. “I want to talk to him.”
“I bet you do,” she says. “He’s coming to pick you up and take you to your next foster home.”
“Fine,” I say, defiantly.
She walks around the table, pausing for a moment at my side. “Just think about what I said.” Her voice is softer, almost concerned.
I say nothing as she and the officer walk out of the conference room. I do think about it, though I don’t want to. And the more I do, the more hollow I feel. I don’t like that feeling, so I fill it with anger instead, like I always do.
Hammond had been working with me since my mother gave me up. He was about the only constant I knew in my life. And for as long as I had known him, he was the only adult that treated me well. Whenever I was in trouble, he was the one that would bale me out. He was always kind, and about the only person in the world that I trusted. Still, even then, I did not fully trust him. There was always that voice in the back of my mind that told me he was going to betray me. The only difference was, that unlike every other person, Hammond made me feel like maybe that voice was just my own screwed up head. It was as close to trust as I could muster.
I sat in the back seat as Hammond drove and Ms. Garza rode shotgun. “So I hear you had another incident,” Hammond says. He is tall so he sits high in the seat. I can see his dark eyes through the rear view mirror. Despite everything, they still show a glint of kindness, as if what I did didn’t matter to him.
“Can we talk about something else,” I say, looking away, not willing to look him in the eye.
“Sure,” Hammond says, unaffected by my shortness with him. He seems to understand my anger and is never bothered by it. I often wish others could understand the way he does. “How about your birthday? You’re 17 now. That’s an important age.”
“Really?” I could not think of anything important that came from being 17. It was that taunting age where adulthood pointed a finger at you and laughed because you weren’t older. To me, 17 was the worse age I could be.
“I have a surprise for you,” he says, reaching into his jacket pocket. He pulls out a key and hands it to me.
Taking it from him, I look it over. It is ordinary enough, small like a key to a foot locker. “Wow,” I say, unenthusiastically. “Thanks for the … key.”
“It’s more than just a key,” Hammond says. “It goes to a safety deposit box. I was given strict directions by your mother to hold on to that key until you were an adult. Now you’re 17, I figure you’re close enough. Besides, I’ve been dying to see what she left you. It’s exciting, like a mystery.”
“Yah, maybe there will be money and passports and the truth will finally come out that I am the daughter of a secret agent. Then all the crap in my life will make sense and the emotional pain I feel will magically go away.”
“Oh just humor him,” says Ms. Garza.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I just don’t think that anything my mother has left for me is going to be worth looking at.”
“Well, whether you’re excited or not,” Hammond says, “I have been wondering a long time about what could be in that box.”
“Can’t hurt I guess,” I say.
The bank is not an ordinary bank. It’s much ritzier than I had anticipated. Of course, I figured more on a pawn shop than an actual bank. This place is for upstanding people with a commodity that is scarce for my type and completely unseen for types like my mother. No, the only reason for my mother to be in a place like this is if she were taking part in a robbery. Even then, this place would be way too sophisticated for her level of criminal. The security alone requires a certain type of sophistication from its criminals. I can’t imagine my mother ever being here.
Outside, a transient stands with a sign made from a torn box. In large scribbled letters the sign reads: End of Days Coming. Seeing me, he decides to take the opportunity to accost an underage girl. He eyes me up and down, his bristly chin quivering as he does so. “Prepare,” he exclaims in a crackly, vodka soaked gasp. “The end is nigh.”
I smile and walk at a more brisk pace, trying not to make eye contact. Ms. Garza grabs at her purse as if to prepare herself. I imagine she probably has mace in there. Hammond steps between me and the old man, ushering me into the bank.
“You’ll see,” the transient says from behind. “The day of judgment is coming. No one can escape it.”
Inside, the clerk looks me over, also unconvinced that I belong in a place like this. I show her the key and she immediately nods. Gesturing to a vault door, she leads the way. I follow her into a room with multiple security boxes lining the wall, each with its own keyhole and serial number next to it. The floor, ceiling, and door, every inch of the room is lined with metal so that every sound carries a sharp echo. The clerk gestures to the box that is mine and then stands to the side while I insert the key. Turning the lock, it comes easily, twisting nearly two turns before stopping. Pulling, the small door swings open revealing a dark compartment. Within it, a small box sits alone. The clerk pulls the box out, and turning, walks over to a small table in the middle of the room where she lays the box down. “I will wait outside,” she says.
“No need,” I say. “This shouldn’t take long.”
“As you wish.” She stands silently at the door, waiting.
I look at the box. It is plain with no outward markings. Its function is not one of esthetics, but simply to guard things from time. Though I am skeptical, I can’t help but think that perhaps there is something of importance in the box. Reaching my hand toward the box, I notice that they are shaking. I don’t know why they are shaking. They just are. I soon write it off as a shiver of cold from the draft in the room. Pressing my fingers against the sides, I slide the lid off. The box is nearly empty with the exception of an envelope and a locket.
So much for the secret agent theory, I think to myself.
I pick up the envelope first, allowing the necklace to slide back into the box. On the front of the envelope is my name scrolled out in beautifully written cursive, my mother’s handwriting. Though I was young when she left, I still have a hint of remembrance of it. The memory brings back that empty feeling that I try so hard to ignore and with it the want of tears. Quickly opening the envelope, I grab the locket and place it inside. And then, before I allow myself to cry, I place the envelope in my jacket pocket, swallow hard and walk away from the empty box.
Chapter 2
In the car, no one says anything for a while. I sit staring out the window as we leave the city and head into the countryside. Trees engulf us as the cityscape fades to a more rustic landscape. The occasional barn and farmhouse escape the cluster of trees.
I look over the envelope again. The front is addressed to me, not as Kyra but as Kishara. It’s my given name, probably after some long lost relative. I wouldn’t know, my mother never told me. I decided to go by Kyra when I discovered that Kishara isn’t exactly the most normal name. There is one message that life teaches each of us, and it’s this, ‘don’t draw attention to yourself’. The world always crucifies those who stand out. Of course, we see celebrities wearing crazy clothes and acting strange, but the truth is they are exactly how we expect them to be. Nothing surprises us about them. What I’m talking about are those who really stand out. Those that call the world out. Go against the grain. Those are the ones that are deemed heretics and have their lives cut short. No, if you want to survive in this world with as little pain as possible, you can’t be causing friction.
It’s like society is holding a gun to your face and saying, ‘Just go along with it and you won’t get hurt.’ Those who listen and act “normal” are fine. Those who
don’t have the sense to, bang, a short lived life. My mother was not one of those who was normal. She had her delusions. Her outright craziness. Speaking of demons and angels and all kinds of nonsense. Said she was chosen. That was enough to get her committed after she left me in the system. That’s the last I heard from her. Maybe she couldn’t help it and maybe she could. I don’t care. I just ignore it and care not to talk about it.
Angel Realms Page 1
