On Unfaithful Wings (19 page)

I didn’t want to see Hell again.

An alley behind a hotel seedier than mine provided refuge, but I chose it for the people, not the ambiance. Men dressed in ragged coats dug through piles of garbage looking for sustenance, others lay curled up beneath newspapers or rat-chewed blankets. I picked my way through them, wondering why I’d felt impelled to come to this place, but it made sense in a perverted way. Years ago, I numbered amongst those shabby men in ragged coats. Then, I’d come to hide from my life; this time, my death.

I politely averted my eyes as I passed a woman kneeling with her head between the legs of a man wearing a suit, his tie pulled askew and pants around his knees. A man lying under a heap of rags groaned when my foot contacted his thigh. I apologized, but comprehension seemed to elude him. Halfway down the alley, I found a spot relatively clear of garbage and people and settled down on the hard cement. The night was cool but not unbearable, the chance of anyone dying of hypothermia slim. I pulled the black trench coat tight around me, more to hide from the world than as a source of warmth.

Knees pulled up to my chest, I closed my eyes to settle my mind, but the night’s events weren’t so easily put to rest. The imposing figure of Azrael inserted itself into my thoughts. I pushed it aside only to see Father Dominic’s face splattered across the headboard, the disappointment in Sister Mary-Therese’s eyes. With a conscious effort, I turned my mind to Trevor, but thoughts of him brought visions of the Hell Mikey showed me, of the Trevor I’d seen in it. I fidgeted and shuffled, attempting to physically expel the unpleasantries from my mind but they rooted themselves in my gut like ragweed.

“Hey. Tone it down, buddy.”

I opened my eyes on a stereotypical homeless face: matted beard, wool hat full of moth holes, the exposed flesh of his face spotted with sores. Why didn’t I noticed him lying so close? The smell should have announced his presence.

“Sorry,” I muttered and shifted yet again.

“You got ants in your pants.”

If I hunkered in this alley long enough, I’d end up with some kind of bugs in my pants. “Something like that.”

“There’s ways to get rid of ’em.”

The man’s voice sounded familiar, and more sober and assured than expected from a bum squatting in an alley. I scrutinized his face--also familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

“It’s not that,” I said. “Do I know you?”

“Sure it is.” He scooted closer, like a friend preparing to tell a secret.

“No. It’s not.”

“I’ve got a little something to help take the edge off.” He dug around inside his grubby camo coat. “I’d even give it to you, no charge.”

I glared at him. My mind said no, but my lips wouldn’t spit the word out. I’d brought no money with me--didn’t think I’d need any to harvest Father Dominic’s soul--so no bottle tonight. A rat scurried down the alley searching for a haven from the humans invading his home. When my attention came back to the man beside me, he held something in his hand.

“For you,” he said showing his tobacco stained teeth.

The syringe he proffered was filled and ready, the needle in place. I stared. He couldn’t have carried it in his pocket that way without sticking himself and I didn’t look away long enough for him to fix it.

Where did it come from?

“No. I quit a long time ago.”

“Go on. No one will know.”

The itch I’d ignored for years returned like a well thrown boomerang. The ache I’d forgotten until Mike showed me Hell rushed into my limbs. I licked my lips and glanced around the alley. Everyone continued on about their own business.

“No, I--”

“You want to. Go ahead.”

Memories raged through my head, spliced together in vignettes like the trailer of a movie run at high speed and starring me. None of them were pleasant memories, but the feelings they brought were, like the way giving birth is the most painful thing a woman experiences yet she’ll have another child. Sister Mary-Therese showed up in those flashes of my past, as did Trevor and Rae. All of them looked disappointed with me.

“Go on. You want it.”

I shook my head to clear it and looked first at the syringe, and then into the man’s eyes. Why did he seem so familiar?

“Who are you?”

“A friend.” He pushed the rig closer.

I reached for it but hesitated: so many years to throw away. The man engaging the services of the working girl groaned, startling me. It seemed he at least got his happy ending.

“No one’s watching,” the man repeated. “No one will know.”

“No.”

I stood and turned to leave temptation behind and the needle pinched the flesh of my leg like the sting of a bee.

“What did--?”

A familiar sensation overloaded my brain.

***

I didn’t stay in one place long during my sojourn on the street, and I think the sun rose and set more than once. Every time my high faded, another unseen needle poked my flesh. It might have been the same guy jabbing me every time--I never saw. Nor did I know if the needles were clean or used, what the hypodermics contained.

Visions appeared as my head swam with the prolonged high. First Mikey, swathed in a white sheet bound at the waist with a red rope, huge wings folded at his back like in the library book. His bare toes dangled above the garbage-strewn pavement of whatever alley I’d collapsed in as he floated three inches off the ground, surrounded in a golden glow, regarding me with a stern look.

“This is his work,” the Archangel intoned, voice bouncing off the brick wall at my back to be squashed flat against piles of garbage and damp cardboard. I glanced down the alley to see if anyone else heard, but my kindred avoiding the real world either didn’t notice his presence or were too inebriated to care.

I waved a hand, dismissing him like a fly buzzing around my head. “Leave me alone,” I slurred through the haze in my brain.

I blinked and his face floated directly in front of mine, his breath hot on my cheek.

“Azrael did this to you. All of it.”

I clamped my eyes shut, turned my head, half expecting him to lean in and rip out my throat like a famished vampire. When I opened them--seconds later or maybe hours--the angelic figure was gone. A man with a needle dripping cloudy fluid from its tip showed up soon after making time and heavenly visits lose their significance.

One night, I glimpsed a man with a dog standing at the mouth of the alley, their shapes silhouetted in bluish streetlight. I watched, fascinated in the manner of which only a child or someone high as a runaway helium balloon are capable. They walked down the alley toward me, the dog tugging hard on the leash. As they approached, my muddled brain recognized a familiarity about the man: the way he walked or the way he dressed, maybe, but I couldn’t nail it down.

A few yards away, the dog began barking and growling, leaping against the leash, trying to break its master’s hold. A line of saliva snaked from the dog’s muzzle and I saw it wasn’t a dog at all but a man on all fours. His teeth gnashed the air in front of me--Father Dominic’s teeth, his features ruined by a shotgun blast. I shrank back as the man holding the leash yanked it, digging the choke chain around the priest’s neck deep enough to draw blood.

“I won’t let him hurt you.”

The man’s voice produced a shudder along my spine. I looked up into the angel of death’s face and opened my mouth to speak, perhaps to beg for my life, but nothing came out. The Father Dominic-dog barked again, then yelped as Azrael snapped the leash once more. The fallen angel smiled.

“You...you killed me,” I said, my words a breathy whisper.

His smile didn’t falter. “Are you sure?”

The world swam as if his words spun me around on one of those tea cup rides common at state fairs. Nausea roiled into my throat, my head drooped forward and the night took over my vision, making the angel of death, the man-dog and the alley disappear.

One day--the second? Third? Tenth? Who knew?--I lay splayed across a sour-smelling pile of God-knows-what when a shadow fell across me. Bobble-headed, I blinked to bring the intruder into focus, but the world wouldn’t reconcile itself into one exposure. Giving up, my head flopped back onto my rotting pillow. If I left whoever-it-was alone, maybe they’d leave me alone, too.

No such luck.

A hand snagged my ankle and jerked me from the jury-rigged mattress, head bouncing on the ground. I smiled like a kid enjoying the ride, oblivious to the possible danger lurking at the other end of the arm. With the latest fix still fresh in my veins, I didn’t care.

The hand dragged me for blocks, miles, before stopping, then hands grabbed me under the arms, lifted me off the ground. It might have been the same person who dragged me from the alley or someone else, I couldn’t tell. The person draped my arm around their shoulders, encircled my waist with their arm and I got the distinct impression the person was considerably smaller than me in spite of the strength they showed. I stared at the person’s face hovering below mine but saw only a smudge the way innocent bystanders are disguised on real-life cop shows. Whoever it was hefted me and away we went: to somewhere, to nowhere, to Heaven or Hell. I pondered the thought briefly before drifting off to enjoy my high.

***

The next time my eyes opened, a real mattress pressed against my back and a ceiling wavered above me. Sharp, painful lines and blaring color replaced the fuzziness at the edges of the world. A bedside lamp blinded me. The over-powering stench of garbage, puke and shit tainted everything. It took a second to recognize the source of theheadword: me, not my surroundings. I attempted to sit up and failed miserably. The bed shook under me as if an earthquake rattled the world, but I soon realized the shivers racking my body made the bed move, not the other way around. A chill settled on me; I pulled a blanket tight under my chin, closed my eyes and concentrated on keeping my teeth from chattering.

Where am I? What’s happening?

Familiar questions. A particularly violent quake knocked my knees together.

Where’s my fix?

“Icarus?”

A woman. A voice I should know.

Does she have my fix?

My eyelids slammed open, eyes darting around the room. Familiar voice, but no one in sight.

“Who’s there?” My parched throat produced a strangled croak. When did I last have a drink of water? Years ago, maybe. A very long time passed before my unseen captor answered.

“It’s me.”

She sat on a chair beside the bed, looking as though she’d been there the entire time, yet I hadn’t seen her. A ghost? No. She touched my hand and I felt her skin, her warmth. A sensation tingled beneath her touch, swirling under my flesh.

“I know you.”

She nodded.

I groped for a name, a memory, like a man looking for his keys in a dark room, picking things up and putting them down, using his fingers as eyes. All the things I touched remained unrecognized. I looked at her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, her amber eyes, her plain-yet-beautiful face, and it came to me.

“Poe.”

A nervous smile pulled at the corners of her mouth and the tingling in my hand spread past my wrist, forcing the itch in my skin before it like dawn chasing away the night.

“Everything will be all right, Icarus.”

“Poe...”

“Sshh.”

I rolled suddenly onto my side and grabbed her sleeve. The movement startled her, transforming her expression from smile to concern. Ache and longing filled my limbs.

“Do you have my fix?” The words creaked from my throat. “Give it to me.”

She shrank away but I yanked harder on her sleeve, unwilling to let her get away.

“Icarus--”

“Give it to me!”

The words came out a yell. Poe’s features drooped, giving her the look of a scolded puppy. She stood, pulled her hand away. If I’d cared about anything other than getting more drugs, I’d have noticed the pleasant sensation in my hand disappear, replaced by the awful itch moving and hiding with every attempt to scratch it. With it came nausea. I looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to reach into some concealed pocket and pull out what I needed. She leaned forward, staring into my eyes. No more puppy look. I didn’t like what I saw.

“Poe.” I breathed deep, calmed myself. “I just need--”

Words froze in my throat as the palm of her left hand slammed against my chest, pressing me into the mattress. I wanted to struggle but the pressure held me firm. The tingling returned, not remotely pleasant or comforting this time. It swirled in my chest like a gathering hurricane, expanding to become the perfect storm. The itch, the ache cowered before it, running away to gather in my arms, my legs, my groin, my head. They intensified and grew the way a balloon bulges at the ends when squeezed in the middle. It felt like my head might burst.

“Ahhh.”

The scream escaped my lips without consent. My stomach roiled and flipped. I grabbed Poe’s arm, desperate to move it, scratched at her skin, at my skin, but she held fast. Tears streamed down the side of my head, running into my ears and onto the pillow, making me twitch as I remembered rain spattering in my ear the night I died.