My Guardian Angel

by Leanne Fitzpatrick

My Guardian Angel

  Leanne Fitzpatrick

  Copyright © Leanne Fitzpatrick 2015

  Visit my website at www.leannefitzpatrick.co.uk

  Originally published in the Static Movement Anthology Something from the Attic 2

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or locales are entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. This ebook is licenced for your personal use only. Under the terms of this license you may transfer the ebook to any personal device you own for your reading pleasure. The ebook may not be resold or used in any commercial venture. If you wish to share this book please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favourite authorised retailer. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form without prior written permission from the author except in such cases as quotations embodied in critical reviews and other non-commercial endeavours as permitted in this license and under copyright law.

  Thank you for your support and for respecting the hard work that has gone into this book.

  The Bitter Taste

  A brief moment of silence filled the house. Simon stopped crying, lifting his little head. Sally shook her own, hating herself as the hope drained from his eyes. She smiled, pulled a funny face- anything really, to make him smile again.

  It didn’t work. It never did. Not once the plates started flying through the air.

  “Sally?” His voice was quiet. Only four years old and already, he knew to keep silent, unnoticed.

  “Yes?” she whispered.

  “Tell me about your special place. Tell me about how friendly everyone is.”

  She smiled, gathered him into her thin arms and whispered her stories into his ear. She rocked him gently as she spoke of gingerbread houses as high as the sky, and of children who played all day in the sun- because it was always sunny- before going home to eat strawberries and ice-cream and be tucked up safe in bed until the next day.

  By the time she'd told her tale, Simon was asleep. His head was heavy on her shoulder and he snored quietly, mouth hanging open. She lowered him to the floor, placed a cushion under his head and her coat over his tiny body. It had gone silent downstairs. She inched slowly out onto the landing, avoiding the creaky boards.

  Half way down the stairs she stopped, waited. Noise from the TV, something with explosions. That meant only Daddy was home. Mummy didn’t let him watch such violent programs when she was in the house. It was bad for the children.

  She glanced down the stairs towards the porch. Mummy’s shoes and coat were gone. Her car too. She wouldn’t be back for a long time now.

  Ice formed in the pit of her stomach. Alone with Daddy. She heard the snap and hiss of a can opening. A drunken Daddy.

  She shivered, crawled slowly back up the stairs and sat next to Simon. When Daddy was drunk, he did bad things. He was always sorry after, and he’d cry and make her promise not to tell.

  Tears trickled down her cheeks, and she prayed for him to pass out drunk in the chair. It would mean another fight when Mommy returned home- but it was better than trying to explain the bruises.

  ***

  The dream came again, just as it had every night for the last six months. She stood in total darkness. She knew she stood because she could stamp her feet and hear the echo. In this place there was nothing, had never been anything, and her heart beat fast.

  She had no concept of time or space. Many times she had walked. Sometimes she could only go a few steps in any one direction, other times she could walk forever and still not see a thing. Most times, she woke up sobbing her heart out with Simon standing next to her bed, small pudgy fingers stroking her cheek, telling her everything was all right.

  This time she didn’t move. She stood there waiting. Something was watching her, waiting- she could feel its eyes boring into the back of her head.

  Cold sweat broke out on her palms. Her armpit’s itched and her ankles ached. She desperately wanted to run, to hide- to find somewhere where she could not feel that gaze on her.

  She closed her eyes. At least, she thought she did. She raised her fingers to press lightly on her lids. She watched the green and purple colours expand across her eyeballs.

  “Little girl, little girl, why aren’t you running?”

  Her body trembled. Her legs were immobile jellied poles in the instant she heard the soft, sibilant whispers.

  “What is your name, little girl who comes to my world of darkness?”

  She swallowed, shook her head. Her hands curled into fists, arms hugging herself tightly.

  “Do I frighten you, little girl?”

  Something brushed against her leg. She shrieked, pressed her fists against her mouth. She heard it laughing.

  “Little girl, why do I scare you so? Why do you fight me when I am here at your request?”

  She opened her eyes a fraction. There was light coming from somewhere- she could pick out shapes and textures see angles and curves.

  “Do you remember this place, little girl? Do you see where you are?”

  “I’m in the attic,” she murmured.

  It stood behind her. She swallowed the scream, choked as air and noise made a solid lump in her throat.

  “This is my playground,” the thing whispered in her ear. She shuddered as hands gripped her shoulders. She tried to fight it, but she was outside her body now, watching from the air. She could see the creature turning her. See the glint of sharp teeth in a face black as coal.

  It looked up, straight at her- bright eyes and teeth, grinning at her.

  “You should join me here, in my playground. It was you, after all that called me here.”

  “No!” she screamed, lashing out.

  She felt her flailing hand connect, felt the satisfaction at such a solid hit, until she heard the crying, and recognised her little brothers room.

  She swallowed, fought back the urge to vomit.

  “Simon?” she asked the air in front of her.

  “Y-you-u h-hit m-me!”

  “Simon?”

  “W-hy’d you h-hi-t me?”

  “Oh Simon, I’m so sorry!”

  She rolled over to him, hugged him gently.

  “Oh Simon, I had a bad dream. I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to hit you!”

  She held him tight until he stopped crying, and when his arms snaked up around her neck and he hugged her back, she let the hot, tight knot of anger loosen up a little.

  “I’m sorry I cried, Sally,” he murmured, voice already thick with sleep.

  “Shh,” she soothed. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” She held onto him, rocking him until he drifted back into sleep.

  His snores helped to calm her further. She lay there holding him, staring at the ceiling until grey light started to seep into the room.

  Eventually she gave up the fight, and she nodded off into a more peaceful doze.

  ***

  They awoke together, bodies jerking, arms instinctively tightening around one another.

  Another door slammed. Shouting, hysterical voices sounded muffled for a moment and then clear as the door opened and both their parents stomped through the upstairs.

  Sally felt Simon shaking. She knew the warning signs.

  She pushed him under the bed, held him there, begging him silently to stay where it was safe.

  She stood just as the bedroom door slammed open, the doorframe split, wood splintered and she heard the plaster crack when the door crashed into it.

  “Where is he!” the man mountain roared.

  Sally stood silent. Under the bed she heard Simon squeak.

  “Simon! Simon! Get here
now boy!”

  “You’re not taking him!” she heard her mother scream.

  She watched as the smaller woman launched herself at the bigger man, nails scratching at his face.

  He roared something unintelligible, slapping her hands away, finally grabbing her by her long tangled hair and dragging her out of his way.

  She screamed, Sally flinched, her scalp prickling in sympathy.

  “Simon!” the monster roared, stomping further into the room.

  Sally stood frozen in place.

  “Get out of my way, girl,” her father hissed, towering over her.

  She tried to speak, but words failed her. She shook her head, terrified and defiant.

  He snarled, reached towards her. She trembled.

  “You are not taking my children!” her mother screeched. Sally stared, shaking uncontrollably, watching her mother pulling her father back, ripping out chunks of his hair.

  “Oh God,” she mumbled. “Oh God, oh God!”

  Behind her Simon wailed- terrified out of his mind at this invasion. His fear more than anything broke the spell that held her there. She stooped, picked up the plastic cricket bat so carelessly dropped days ago, and ran forward.

  “Get out!” she screamed, whacking the bat against him. “I hate you! I hate you! Get out, get out, get out!”

  She punctuated each shout with a blow from the bat, forcing him further back. He lashed out, his giant’s hand smacking against her head.

  She swayed; tears bright in her eyes as she reeled back. She knew how easy it would be to fall down, to retreat to the darkness that pulsed at the edge of her vision.

  She felt something push past her, the bat pulled easily from her weak grip. She saw Simon rush at their father; saw the bat swing. She heard the roar as it connected with the tender spot between his legs, and she reached out, pulling Simon away as the man-mountain sank to his knees.

  Her eyes met her mothers. Something passed between them. She didn’t know what, but she felt suddenly sick and hollow.

  She stood, holding her brother and they watched as their mother struggled to drag the monster out of the room, the fight gone out of him for now.

  Simon ducked out of her grip and forced the door into its mangles frame. He leaned his back against it, staring back at his sister.

  “Sally,” he said, voice barely even a whisper.

  “Simon,” she said.

  “I had an accident.” The shame she heard in his voice broke her heart, and she looked at the dark stain on his trousers. “I didn’t mean to- I was so scared. I’m sorry.”

  “No,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t stop him.”

  ***

  They ignored the cries, the begging as best they could while Simon washed and changed.

  Every slap made them flinch, but their young minds knew that to interfere was to bring the punishment on themselves. They knew they were too small and too weak to do anything.

  They sat in the middle of the room, and Sally told Simon her stories, raising her voice to drown out the sounds of their mother crying.

  Hours passed. The sun hid behind clouds. Sally stared out of the window, at the blue sky, the white clouds. Everything was bright and colourful, and completely at odds with the detached feelings in her heart.

  The door slammed shut, they heard their father’s motorbike rev up, its roar suffocating every other sound.

  They waited.

  Soft tapping at the door.

  “Kids?” Their Mother: her voice quiet and hoarse. “Can I come in?”

  “Mommy?”

  Sally let him go. She stood, but she made no move to go to the door. Simon pulled on the door until it unstuck, and he jumped straight into his mother’s arms.

  “Oh Mommy!”

  “It’s okay, baby,” she said. Sally looked away as she stroked his hair. “He’s gone for a while.”

  “He scares me, Mommy.”

  “I know. He scares me too.”

  “Why’s Daddy so angry?”

  “I don’t know, darling,” she said.

  Liar! Sally screamed in the privacy of her mind.

  “Would you guys like some dinner?”

  “Oh yes please!”

  “Sally?”

  She nodded, didn’t trust herself to speak just yet.

  She followed them down to the kitchen. It was a war zone. What wasn’t broken lay littered amongst the debris. Silently she watched from the doorway as their mother picked up a few things and pushed shattered porcelain about to clear space on the worktop.

  “Can you get me the jam out the fridge please Sally?”

  She did as she was bid, holding the jar out to her mother. Again, their eyes met. Sally noticed the bruises, darkening with each passing minute. Her mother looked away first. Sally felt sick to her stomach.

  “Here you go, my little prince,” their mother said, presenting the sandwich with a flourish. “Chunky peanut butter and strawberry jam. Your favourite.”

  “It was his favourite two months ago,” Sally muttered. “He prefers chocolate spread now.”

  “Oh.” She looked lost for a moment, and Sally felt rotten. “Would you prefer chocolate spread?”

  “No Mommy. I want this. I still like it. Honest.”

  Sally stared at the floor, small fists clenching and unclenching.

  “What about you Sally? What do you want on your sandwich?”

  “I’m not hungry,” she muttered.

  “You have to eat something.”

  “You can’t make me!” she shouted, glaring at her mother.

  “Sally!”

  “No! Leave me alone! I hate you!”

  She turned on her heel, ignored the pain as porcelain sliced into the soft skin, and ran up to her room.

  The door bounced back out of its frame twice before it stuck. Sally threw herself onto her bed, buried her face in the pillow, and finally let herself cry. She let every shred of fear, hate, anger, confusion, and pain well up and explode out of her until her throat was sore, her eyes were bloodshot and puffy, and the snot stopped pouring out of her nose.

  Eventually she pushed herself up to sit, leaning against the wall and she stared at the sticky wet mess on her pillow cover. She felt drained and elated at the same time.

  “Do you feel better now?”

  She froze, eyes darting about the room.

  “You won’t find me in your bedroom, little girl,” the voice laughed.

  “You’re not real!” You’re just a dream?”

  “Just a dream? I don’t think so.”

  “Then what are you?”

  “What I am is no concern. It’s what I’m here for that you should think about.”

  Sally swallowed, wiped her nose with her sleeve.

  “What are you here for?” she asked, unconsciously scrunching herself into the corner.

  “Are you afraid of me, little girl? You shouldn’t be. I’m here for you. Only for you. To help you as you see fit.”

  “I don’t understand-”

  “Come join me in my playground, little girl, and I will explain it all to you.”

  ***

  The attic was the same as in her dream. She stood on the ladder, her head and torso in the cold empty space thinking about every horror movie she’d ever sneaked down the stairs to watch.

  Her shoulders prickled.

  “Hello Sally,” the serpent’s voice said behind her.

  She twisted, gripped the ladder so she wouldn’t fall and stared.

  It crouched on an old table, eyes bright and blue, mouth wide and grinning. Its teeth were as sharp and metallic as she remembered. She couldn’t make out any other features.

  Its body was made of shadow, a skinny black shape against the gloom.

  “You’re real,” she breathed.

  “Of course.”

  She looked past it to the Christmas tree it was decorating.

  “It’s July,” she said after a moment’s silence.

&nbs
p; “It is irrelevant.”

  She climbed the rest of the way up into the attic and trod carefully over the beams to him.

  “What’s your name?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Everyone has a name.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Then I’ll give you one.”

  They stared at one another as she thought.

  “Peter,” she said at last. “Your name is Peter.”

  The creature turned its head to one side, thinking for a while.

  “I’ve never been a Peter before. It is a good name.”

  “Why are you here, Peter.”

  “Because you called me here.”

  “How? You didn’t even have a name.”

  “Little Sally,” the creature smiled, hanging a glass bauble on the tree, “I don’t answer to names. I answer to feeling, to emotions.” He grinned. His teeth set her on edge. Shark’s teeth, she thought.

  “Why did you answer my call?”

  The creature leaned back. Sally noticed just how long he was. Even his fingers were abnormally long. She started to feel sick.

  “Because your call was the loudest. Tell me, little Sally, what is so bad that you can call out so loudly for help?”

  She watched him silently, and then pulled herself up onto the table next to him. He was cold, his body only semi-solid. She tried to think of the right words, then gave up and simply told him her first memory of the bad times. Once she started, she found she couldn’t stop the telling. He was a gracious listener, silent and accepting, never judging. She cried, and she laughed. She told him everything she had bottled up inside herself for so many years, and she told him of the good times after Simon was born, and of the bad times that soon followed.

  Sometimes he asked a question, and she would answer, remembering new things and relaying them to him. She asked once more, what he was, and when he explained that he was her Guardian Angel she accepted it as fact. She didn’t question his origin or his motives again after that, merely content to pour out her hearts sorrows, her dreams and her beliefs to someone who wanted to hear them.

  At the end of her tale he smiled and kissed her once on the forehead, and told her he would take care of everything, that he would make everything better. All she had to do was exactly as he told her. She promised she would, and with that, he led her back to the attic opening and watched her climb back down the ladder.