Flights of Angels

He crossed a filthy tunnel, ignoring discarded garbage, swept away by broken objects with sharp edges. He felt like a broken thing with sharp edges himself.

"Are you back?" came a familiar voice. "Soon?"

"I need it," he said, hugging himself. He couldn't look at his salesman's face, so he stared at his maroon shirt. Its dark nondescript logo was no longer readable and spotted. Hands that were shaking just a little bit, he stretched out the crumpled debts.

"Tell me what you want," he said.

"You know what I want," he said angrily. "Angel."

"You have to take it easy on that," he said.

"As you care," he said as he felt the poison rising into him. "As anyone who cares."

He shrugged. "Your funeral." He glanced quickly, pulled out a small yellow packet from his pocket, replaced it with cash.

When he started to open it he said, "Oh, not here."

She glanced at him, then looked down again, her fingers working on the phone.

"Do you want me to take you back?" he said sharply. He rubbed his chin in the deepest shade. "Back there. Keep going."

Caught with rage and fear, he slipped back into it.

"And sit down, for God's sake! You know you don't want to do that shit on your feet."

The pack held tightly in his hand, and he sat on the wall of the cinder block, in the middle of a torn, yellow newspaper smelling of urine and Dumpster.

He went through the packet and saw a small, dark, oblong gray paper coming out of the paper. His whole world was centered in and out until there was nothing left but the Angel.

Smiles.

The pill was caught and strangled while she swallowed, coughing.

He closed his eyes, leaning against the solid concrete wall.

But then something went wrong. His stomach was burning with the fire of a volcano. He screamed or tried, but a thousand needles pierced his lungs. Her stomach was swollen with pain as if something had rotted away.

He tried to hold on to the floor, the wall behind him, to collapse around the deadly pains. But his eyes were darkened, and his vision was blurred so that he was not able to see.

He was blind.

He was going to die here.

At the top, a deafening roar shook the earth and silenced the earth. Heavy rains poured down on him, pouring him into the icy water. A violent thunderstorm struck his ears, his head thundered. He shivered uncontrollably as the freezing rain hit the hammer on his body.

The torment in his gut grew until all the tormented feelings in his body cried and screamed. The blazing fire burned his skin, his mind. The whole world was a hot white ball of pain.

The pain is excruciating — permanent, unbearable, and inevitable.

But finally, after a while, a storm arose.

The thunder let out its booming, deafening roars. The rain stopped, slowing down instead of hitting his body.

The fire in his gut subsided, descended into his soft stomach, reaching the size of a cantaloupe, a golf ball, a light spot.

And, finally, it's gone.

She blinked a lot. Blurred, gray, dull mixed conditions, gradually acquire a sharp, color, light.

Deliverance flowed from him as if wrapped in angelic wings. She felt like dancing. He stood up and moved. When he almost fell, he giggled.

He was alive. The sky was bright, shiny like a blue cerulean, the ground was fine, it was dirty and dumping, but who cared? It was dry and warm, and so was she.

The earth greeted her eager eyes as waves of gratitude flowed through her veins.

He was alive, the pain was gone, and everything was all right again. The world has never been so sweet, so sweet.

As he walked up and down the aisle, his salesman nodded to him. "Don't rush back," he said.

"Come back? Why should I ever come back?" The idea was ridiculous, he laughed.

"Yes," he cried. "It will last forever. It always will."