How to be Exquisite

The door of the weathered farmhouse flung open and Olwen dragged herself and her package inside.

“Imogene!” she called out, her voice colliding with the walls of the shadowed rooms. “Imogene! Come and see what I’ve snatched from the sky!”

Olwen rolled on the tattered carpet next to the prize she’d brought home, tossing, and turning in a fit of laughter as her sister entered the room. The sight of Olwen’s glee made Imogene grin ear to ear. She said, “You’ve brought me something have you? Something to make me laugh?”

Olwen cackled, eyes closed, mouth opened to the cobweb coated ceiling. “No, no, Imogene. I’ve brought something to make you envious.”

Olwen launched herself to her feet, gesturing wildly to the sizable bundle waiting on the living room floor. “Come look, Imogene. Is it not the most splendid of prizes? The universe would only give such a gift to someone truly special. Come look, Imogene. Tell me what you see.”

Imogene crept closer to the package, wary now. It was wrapped in a muddied white sheet and it was lumpy in the middle, bulging and angular, before thinning out in one direction like a crooked teardrop. Imogene couldn’t fathom how Olwen had managed to carry such a thing all the way home. It was longer than her sister by nearly a foot, bulky and wide like a pile of stones melded together and stained with something crimson. Gingerly, Imogene plucked at the sheet and pulled it free.

Her breath caught in her throat.

“It’s an angel,” she whispered, sinking back onto her rear. The sheet fell into her lap and she saw the crimson stain for what it was, felt the stickiness of the blood across her palms.

“Of course, it’s an angel! A dead angel. My angel!” Olwen cackled with laughter again, snatching the sheet from Imogene’s lap and tossing it in the air.

Imogene stared in horror at the broken body lying on their filthy woven rug. It was twisted and bent into odd angles beneath a mane of golden hair that clung to its neck, its bare chest, its pale stomach, all of it stained pink with blood. Imogene had never seen a body before and this, she supposed, was not a body like any other, but the human resemblance was striking. The hair, the arms, it’s long, elegant legs. But it was the one non-human feature that stole Imogene’s attention. Two massive white avian wings protruded from its back, rumbled feathers decorating the carpet like confetti.

“Did it fall?” Imogene whispered, awe and sorrow in her voice. “What could cause such a thing?”

Olwen scoffed and rolled her eyes, “Me, you idiot. I saw it in the sky and willed the wings not to fly and guess what happened? It fell! It fell for me, Imogene! Do you know what that means?” She screams the answer without waiting for her sister’s reply. “ It means I am gifted by the universe! A Queen of the world!”

Olwen paraded around the room, waving to an imaginary crowd of admirers before taking a seat upon a chair she deemed her throne. She blew kisses. She showed off imaginary jewels across her neck and through her hair. She raised a toast to her people and, for a moment, she was elated, she was exquisite. Then her sister spoke.

“It’s such a pity,” Imogene said, still sitting on the floor. “Angels are the most magnificent things.”

Seething, Olwen rose from her throne. “You still regard them so highly now that you see one lying dead on the living room floor?”

Imogene shrugged. “I don’t know, Olwen. Look at it. Could anything compete with wings like this? Could a Queen?” She reaches out, fingers brushing the soft down of the angel’s white feathers.

Olwen’s face burned red as she watched her sister. There was always something else. Something more. “Fine,” she snapped suddenly. “Then I will be an angel.”

Imogene watched as Olwen dashed into the kitchen and tore the butcher’s knife from the wall. “Go get your sewing kit, Imogene,” she ordered and raised the rusted blade above her head.

It took Olwen six blows with the butcher’s knife to hack the wings off the angel and, by the time Imogene returned to the living room, she was standing in a pool of blood, clutching both wings to her chest. Once Imogene had sewed the wings to Olwen’s back, she stood and paraded around the room with glee, laughter spilling from her lips as she danced and admired her stolen wings in a dust-coated mirror.

“I am magnificent!” she shouted, voice echoing in the hollow rooms. “I am marvelous, I am beautiful, I am an angel!”

Imogene watched her distantly as she perched on the edge of the couch. A frown began to bend her mouth and when Olwen noticed, she grew angry and stormed across the room. “Stop looking so jealous and dry, Imogene. You should look at me like you looked at that thing the first time you saw it.”

Imogene sighed. “I’m sorry Olwen, but I just don’t think you’re an angel.”

Olwen turned and gave Imogene’s sewing kit a swift kick. It flew across the room, spindles of thread unspooling like spider webs across the floor. “How could I not be an angel, Imogene? Look at my beautiful wings! How could you see them and still claim I am not an angel?”

“There’s more to being an angel than having wings, Olwen,” Imogene said matter of factly. “Birds have wings, after all.”

“I’m not a bird,” Olwen snapped and began to pace around the room. Her brow was furrowed, eyes wild. After a moment she stamped a foot and threw her hands into the air. “What more could there be?”

Imogene shrugged again. “I don’t know. There’s something inside an angel that makes it what it is, right?”

Olwen thought for a moment then her expression grew bright and she snatched the butcher’s knife from the bloody floor. “I know exactly what you mean now, Imogene!”

Reaching down, Olwen seized one of the angel’s arms and hacked it off with two blows of the butcher’s knife before rushing back into the kitchen. Before long, the smell of cooking meat had filled the air.

“Look at me now Imogene,” Olwen demanded when she’d returned to the living room. “I have beautiful wings and I have an angel inside me. What do you see when you look at me now?”

Imogene cocked her head to the side, considering her sister. “Well, I suppose I see an angel now.”

Olwen exploded with delight and began to spin in a dozen circles around the room. She lifted her wings and flapped them with her hands and it only made her laugh harder.

“I am magnificent, I am powerful, I am exquisite!” Olwen shouted so loudly that Imogene covered her ears. “I am the most beautiful angel in the world! Say it Imogene, say it!”

“You’re the most beautiful angel in the world, Olwen.”

“I am fantastic, I am superb, I am the most incredible angel there is! Tell me Imogene!”

Imogene sighed. “You’re the most incredible angel there is, Olwen.”

“I am a Queen and an angel! An Angel Queen!” Olwen jumped atop the rickety chair spreading her stolen wings. “I am the most powerful angel in the world!” she shouted.

Imogene laughed for the first time.

“You couldn’t possibly be the most powerful angel in the world,” she said.

Olwen stumbled as though she’d been slapped. She stared at her sister, the farmhouse falling quiet as the wings slipped from her fingers and fell against her back. “How could you say that?” She whispered. “After everything, after all I have done.”

“Well,” Imogene scoffed. “Everyone knows that the most powerful angel of all is the angel of death. You know that, don’t you?”

Like a statue, Olwen stood on the edge of the chair staring at her sister. She heard the spiders in their webs, the mice in the walls, the wind peeling shingles from the roof. Then slowly, she stepped down from her throne, placing one foot after the other until she joined Imogene on the tattered, floral couch. In the shadowed light of the old farmhouse she sat by sister’s side, caressed her cheek, kissed her forehead and for a moment they both looked out the window together like maybe, in some other world, that could be enough.

“You’re right,” Olwen said finally, tears in her eyes. “But that’s why I have you, Imogene.”

Then she swung the butcher’s knife once more.

M. R. Britton