Fallen Angel

Fallen Angel



Erika could not understand what was happening.  Reeling from the previous blow, she dove onto the floor in the corner desperately trying to cover her face, preparing for the onslaught that was sure to come.  She screamed no more.  This seemed to scare her, though, as she was not sure whether this served to placate her father’s rage, or fuel it.

“You bitch,” he screamed, kicking viciously at her sides.  “You deliberately disobeyed me!  What would your mother say?  It’s your fault she left!”

The tears came in streams now, mixing with the blood from her nose in a small puddle beneath her cheek.  She whimpered as it soaked her collar.

“I’m talking to you!” he roared.

“You were drunk!”  This was stupid, and she knew it.  She’d made mistakes before, but surely she had realized after returning from the hospital, not to discuss the drinking.  He had been fired last month, which drove him to drinking more than usual.  It also gave him more opportunity to play; for that’s all it was to him – a game.  Erika closed her eyes as she recognized the familiar smile spreading across his face.  It made her sick.  She tried to block out the pain, thinking quietly that soon it would be over, that he would tire of the screams and return to his bottle.  This was her second mistake.

She prayed it would end soon.  The kicks were coming faster and harder, with no sign of letting up. 

“Please,” she whispered.  “Please, stop.”

Several of his kicks found their way towards her midsection in response, before she

realized with horror what could happen.  Erika was three months late.

*                    *                    *

She awoke the next day to the sound of sparrows just above her window.  The sun streamed in through the clouds beyond, filtering through the leaves of the great oak tree outside her room.  Her calendar was turned to August.

Erika’s day began with an odd sort of normality.  She lay in bed for a few minutes, mostly to nurse her wounds, but also to bathe herself in the morning’s warmth.  Peeling back the covers, she winced at the sight of her body.  The bruises were everywhere, large and dark.  This was nothing new, albeit frightening.  She hated her body, but wasn’t quite sure what effect this ‘new look’ had on her.

It was difficult to move, and breathing proved even harder.  Stumbling to the bathroom, she was extra careful not to make too much noise.  It didn’t take much to wake her father, but she also knew the results of his nightly binging.  Allowing her underclothes to fall to the floor behind her, she stared at her body in the mirror.

Erika knew that some boys at school found her attractive, but she was not too sure of what they saw.  She really had to concentrate on looking past the bruises, the scars, and the stretch marks just beginning to form on the edges of her tummy.  Her hands were rough and calloused with the remnants of defensive wounds, yet her skin was soft.  She stared at her face in the mirror, trying not to focus on the dark circles beneath her bright green eyes.  Her complexion was smooth, despite the swelling on her left cheek.  Scanning the curves of her body, Erika noticed how her teardrop breasts accentuated the soft swell of her stomach and round hips.

However, as her depression took hold, she found her obvious beauty fleeting and transparent.  Stepping gingerly into the tub, she drew the curtain behind her, and closing her eyes, allowed the hot steam to envelop her.  Feeling the water drip down off her chestnut hair, kissing her silken shoulders and caressing every curve, Erika realized that for the first time in months, she was smiling.

*                    *                    *

         “Angel, Erika?” came a voice, drifting from afar. 

Ms. McAlister was calling roll and Erika was somewhere else, scratching poetry into her crappy school desk, mostly illegible except for the apparent title – ‘Ashes.’  “Ms. Angel!”  Erika continued to scrape away at the decaying varnish with the tip of her pen, marveling at the small white shavings it produced.  Her scrawled lines assuredly read:

Black and Red are your colors of mine

And a feast of lies on which to dine;

When ‘once’ was lost and won’t be found,

You wept and shook without a sound

And I’ve said it before, we cannot be.

Only horrors shall rise, from you and me.



  Until her baby came, this would be her best creation, a claim she hoped to stake out in this cold world.  She smiled at this, her eyes closed, gently rubbing her tummy.  No one else knew, nor did they need to.

         Erika snapped her head up as Ms. McAlister’s hand came down hard on her desk.  “Ms. Angel, I doubt the rest of the class finds this as amusing as you do!  You’re not a freshman anymore.  I’ll not have you acting childish in my classroom.”  Erika muttered something incoherent under her breath that caused her teacher to stand up.  “What was that, young lady?”

         “I said,” Erika breathed, “if you already knew I was here, what does it matter if I say anything?”

         “It matters, Ms. Angel, because I say it matters.”

         “Whatever.”  This smart remark was awarded with a scattering of snickers from the rest

of the class.  Ms. McAlister had had enough, and began to make her way towards the back of the

room where Erika was sitting.  Erika looked up as Ms. McAlister neared her half of the room and caught her gaze, bringing her to an abrupt and uneasy stop.  The once soft and sad eyes had suddenly become sharp and bright, hinting at a hidden wrath capable of great violence.  That the flash of a caustic stare should be enough to stop her teacher dead came as a startling revelation to Erika.  Could she go on to use this with all of her teachers when she found it necessary; or perhaps all who were foolish enough to get in her way?  And what would it take to escalate the situation even more?  She shivered at the thought of using it against her father and quickly banished the thought from her mind.  Erika was sure that the sudden chill she felt would never leave her.                    

         Ms. McAlister was worried not only by the frightening look in Erika’s eyes, but also by the thought that if the rest of the students noticed the fear locked on her face, then there was sure to be trouble and she would not be able to regain control of her class.  She breathed deep

and smoothed her skirt, in a half-hearted attempt to compose herself.  “Yes, well–” she stuttered, cleared her throat, and tried again.  “Pack your things, Ms. Angel, you’re going to the main office.  And take that smart-alecky mouth with you.”  She turned in a huff, secretly proud that she had saved her dignity, and began to make her way back to the head of the class.  Suddenly, a stab of terror shot through her stomach and Ms. McAlister’s face visibly turned to the color of the chalk dust clinging to her blouse.  The collective gasps and whispers from the surrounding students seemed to pass right through her, as she had heard what they heard. 

         Erika Angel was slumped over on the floor next to her chair, her pink gel pen protruding grotesquely from her left forearm.  The warm red liquid that seeped from the wound was tinged with ink, and trickled into a pool beneath her arm.  Obviously afraid to turn around, Ms. McAlister forced herself to do so anyway, slowly and deliberately.  Nothing, she thought, could have prepared her for what she was now staring at.  She had been a teacher for thirteen long years, day in and day out; her job was the greatest source of pride in her life.  Now it seemed menial, unimportant, as one of her brightest students lay in a crumpled and bloody mess on the floor — her classroom floor. 

         Struggling to tear her gaze from Erika’s shallowly breathing form, Ms. McAlister hurried to the intercom on the wall as fast as her skirt and heels would allow.  “I need help!” she screamed, hoping for anyone to make this situation go away.  “Help me!” The panicked intensity in her voice worried the rest of the students.  They had never seen their teacher behave like this before.  Ms. McAlister closed her eyes and slid down the wall until she was sitting, hugging her knees to her chest.  Her breathing came in ragged gasps and her hair that was once in a proud, tight bun, hung loosely in strands over her face and shoulders.  Tears were beginning to fall on her rosy cheeks.

*                    *                    *

         Erika woke in a daze and felt as though she might still be dreaming, though she could not recall if she had dreamt or not.  The first thing she noticed was the thick, white bandage taped to her wrist and forearm.  Where am I? she thought.  For a few moments more she studied the cotton bandages as though they could have been an archaeological mystery, and then stood slowly and shakily.  Recognizing her surroundings from that day last year when she had thrown up in Home Room, Erika looked for the school nurse. 

         “Oh dear, you’re awake now,” the nurse crooned, wrapping an arm about Erika’s shoulders.  “Do you know what happened?”

         “Not really, no.”

“You got hurt in class, dear.”  Not wanting to cause any further distress, the nurse decided it was best not to mention that Erika’s wounds were self-inflicted.  Of course, Erika

knew.  “We tried to call your father, but–”

         “No!” she blurted out, suddenly trembling in the nurses arms.  “I’ll be fine, really I will.  I can just walk home.”

         “Not like this, you can’t.  It isn’t safe dear.”          

“But – but –” Erika could not form the words in her mouth.  Her tongue felt heavy and somehow not a part of her.  “Please, you don’t understand.  It’ll make him mad.” 

Understanding her pleas, the nurse sat her down and cradled Erika’s head against her chest. 

         “It’s okay dear, there was nobody home.  If you wouldn’t mind resting here for a few more hours, I would be happy to take you home myself.”

         “Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary, Ma’am.”  Erika froze.  She could not even shake in fear.  Something was very wrong.  That voice – she should not hear that

voice here.  No, something was definitely wrong.

         “Mr. Angel.”  The words didn’t seem to make sense to the nurse, for when she looked into his eyes and saw what was hidden there, saw the cruelty and malice, she knew, and she began to feel.  How could this man, be an angel?                                                                   

         “What happened to you, girl?”  His gaze fell upon Erika in a deliberately unsettling way.

Now she was sure of it.  There was no discernable worry in that voice at all.  There was no… feeling. 

“Ah, s-she –” the nurse stammered.

“That’s funny,” he interrupted.  “I don’t remember asking you.”  He took a step closer to the nurse, backing her against the wall.  Almost frantic, she started looking around her for something, anything that might be able to help her.  Her eyes suddenly focused on the wall intercom behind the shoulder of the large man standing before her.  She started to move towards

it when a great hand reached out and rested against the wall at her back, the arm inches from her face.  He leaned so close, that the nurse could taste the hate on his breath.  The stench of cigarette smoke and old booze permeated her nostrils and she suddenly felt a powerful urge to sit down.  The man muttered something that only she should have been able to hear, though she did not.  She could not stop focusing on his eyes.  “Do we understand each other?” he questioned.  She glanced at the arm beside her face, saw the veins standing out with the strain on the muscles, and nodded her head slowly.

Just then, something that she thought could have been a smile disrupted his face.  And she understood completely.  This was a game to him.  She had often wondered how it was this sort of thing could happen to a girl like Erika; to a true angel.  And now she knew.

         “Daddy, please…”

         “I think it’s time I got you home, girl.”

“But –” A sudden flash of pain shot through Erika’s arm as the powerful hand took hold

of her bandaged wrist.  And when the grip set in, and those rough fingers caught the newly bandaged wound forcing fresh blood to seep through the surface of the cotton, Erika screamed.  Never, say, ‘but,’ she cursed herself.

As she was dragged out of the nurse’s office past the other students crowding the hall, past the rows of empty eyes and blank stares, Erika gave up on pleading.  No one could help her now, no one would.  This was her life.  She allowed her body to be pulled along, scraping her knees on the floor.  Glimpses of a former time passed before her eyes, distorted and played by the tears clinging to her dark lashes.  She saw the fluorescent lights above her that should have stood for safety.  She saw the dirty tiles of the floor beneath her that should have stood for refuge.  She saw the windows and the windowless eyes – they should have stood for sanctuary.  And she saw him; her guardian.  Her –

         Erika suddenly felt the pain of natural light on her eyes.  She smelled fresh air and gasped as she felt her body being dragged down steps.  There, her father’s crusty old sedan sat waiting, like some ominous beast ready to swallow her whole.  He opened the passenger side door and threw her inside, finally releasing his hold on her damaged wrist before slamming the door shut behind him.  She barely managed to pull her ankles into the car before the beast’s mouth closed on her with a finality that was terrifying.  She whimpered to herself as the driver’s side door opened with a rush of foul air, stale with the scent of hatred, and he sat down hard on the creaky springs, swinging the door closed behind him with a sickening crash.

         All desperation suddenly left her, as Erika finally began to realize her predicament.  She hated confined spaces, especially with him.  His head lolled to the side and a grin spread across his filthy muzzle, showing cracked and yellowed teeth.  The stench of booze was nauseating to Erika as she watched him fit a bent cigarette to his lips, and soon the smell of smoke also filled the car, bombarding her senses.  She turned to the grease-streaked window and stared out with dead eyes as the car came to a stuttering start and pulled her away from her safety; and the nurse watched from the window of her office.

*                    *                    *

Erika did not remember when she got home.  Home.  The word sounded so awkward,

slipping off of her tongue as would a banana peel into the trash.  She looked around her slowly, fearful of any trace of him.  She knew that making eye contact was something she did not want to do.  Finding herself lying in the hall amidst a heap of trash and dirty laundry (not a new occurrence, actually) she proceeded to pick herself up and crawl as quietly as possible to the safety of her room.  Well, what little safety it could offer, anyway. 

Stealing quietly to the hamper in her closet, she pulled a familiar towel from the bottom

and winced as she wiped the dried blood from her face and neck.  How it could ever have come to this, Erika did not know.  And she missed her mother.  A muffled crash filtered through her door and slammed into her ears.  Her heart racing, she crept to the door and peered out into the dim light of the hall searching for the source.  He could be right there.  He could be waiting for me.  Her breath quickened and stuck in her throat and a slight sound, like that of a mouse scampering through the walls of a tenement house, escaped from her bruised lips.

         Erika stepped gingerly into the hall, suddenly aware that she was entering a sort of territory where all notions of security ceased to exist.  Always, there were walls and they seemed to grow closer every moment.  She stepped wide, over the beer bottles and junk food wrappers, past the stains that might as well have been burned into the rotting drywall.  Making her way to the family room, where no family would ever find themselves willingly, she found the source of the crash.  Her father lay propped in his chair, its torn upholstery reeking of liquor and old blue smoke.  His mouth lay open, a foul string of drool connecting his face to his shoulder, and his arms were as dead weights, one resting easily on the arm of the chair, the other hanging limp over the opposite side grasping at a glass that was no longer there.  Whiskey soaked into the carpet below with a life and a plan of its own, sucking the ice cubes down with it.  Today must have been a special day, to have ice in the whiskey.  Erika knew her father thought it a crime to water down such fuel.

         Her eyes burned and her lips curled slowly, painfully, in disgust.  If Mom were here, it would never be this messy.  But she knew this was not true.  For the last six or seven months that her mother lingered on with Erika and her father, the house was just as bad.  Still, she found a certain amount of comfort in clinging to false hopes.  It seemed these were the only hopes she had left.  Erika turned to retreat to the solace of her room, her eyes resting only for a moment on

the broken glass beneath her father’s unclenched fist. 

*                    *                    *

         “Hello?  Logan?”  He heard the whisper coming through the phone, and it seemed he could almost feel the fear emanating from the voice on the other end.

         “Erika?”  Logan Jackson had been Erika’s only friend for years.  They grew up together, living only four houses apart on a beautiful, quiet street in a pretty average neighborhood.  Logan’s mother had been the hair stylist for Erika’s mom, and the two children would run and play together while their mother’s chattered away twice a week over various exotic flavors of tea and gourmet sweets.  Erika knew what it was to have a friend, but over the years, she began to understand what it really meant to trust someone, and eventually, to fall in love.

By the time middle school rolled around, no one had even noticed the alcoholism that had

crept into Erika’s home; no one except Erika.  She began to discern the subtle changes in her

father’s once calm and careful demeanor.  His face started to look much older than it should for a man his age, and he seemed to stop caring about his appearance.  After a few months, he stopped shaving altogether.  She also noticed the changes in his mood.  Her father seemed to have a distant look in his eyes all the time, as if he were somewhere a long time ago, and very far away.  But the seldom times he was where he should be, Erika knew she did not want him.

         He began to get angry at the slightest things, like a coat left hanging over a chair, or a cup in the sink.  And he started to smoke.  Erika’s mother tried to talk to her husband, but he only seemed to get angrier, and much more distant.  The first night he hit her mother, Erika had run away from home, somehow ending up at Logan’s back door.  His parents knew what was going on, and so she spent the night with her friend.  And the next, and the next.

         By the time it became a fulltime job for the police intervening, Erika knew something

was seriously wrong.  She began to spend less time at home, and more time with Logan.  They grew closer, sharing their first kiss, their first R rated movie, and all of the intimate secrets a couple of middle schooler’s could possibly have.  She was happy, and she was with him.  He would protect her, and everything would be all right.

         Then one night, Erika’s mother left.  She left no note, no warning.  She had stolen into Erika’s room and kissed her on the cheek.  Then she fled before she could change her mind.  She hadn’t the financial means to care for her child too.  The poor woman had cried herself sick when she ran away, hoping and praying that her baby would be all right.  And when Erika woke the next morning, her mother was gone.  She couldn’t understand why, but it terrified her.  Her mood began to change; she grew more and more distant from people at school, and ever closer to Logan.  But she wouldn’t talk much anymore.  She stopped telling him secrets, and whenever he would ask if she was okay, she’d change the subject.  Logan knew something was very wrong, but he loved her and so, he stopped asking.  He didn’t even ask when the bruises began to appear on Erika’s body.  When she’d show up at school in the morning with a black eye, or he’d catch

her spitting up blood into the water fountain, still he did not ask.  He would simply hold her, and

tell her that he loved her.

         Erika did not know why her father turned his rage upon her, and after a while, she just stopped caring.  The one time she tried asking about her mom, he had hit her so hard that she blacked out.  Neither of them mentioned her mother again after that.  The beatings became

almost ritual, and though she still fought back, Erika knew there was nothing she could do.  And

always, Logan was there for her. 

         “Erika?”

“Yes, I shouldn’t be here.  I shouldn’t be on the phone,” she whispered.  There was a very unsettling tone in her voice that Logan did not like.  He’d become accustomed to quite a lot with Erika, but there was something different tonight.

“What happened?”  Silence.  “Erika?”

“Yeah, I’m here.  I’m scared Logan.”  Now he was sure of it – not once had Erika ever

told him that she was afraid.  He always knew it was true, but she never said it.

“Tell me what happened.”  He tried to keep his voice calm, but the slight shaking he knew he heard, he hoped she did not. 

“I…don’t know.  I saw you at school today.”

“I know.  I’m sorry.  I should have—”

“No, not again baby.”

“Erika.  What’s wrong?”

She sounded nervous in her reply.  “Nothing.  I mean, I woke up on the floor, and there was so much blood.  But Logan, I don’t remember.”

“What don’t you remember?”

“Any of it; what happened.  I don’t remember.”

“Okay.  You want me to come over?”

“No!”  She had to struggle to keep her voice low.  “No, don’t come.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I think it’s okay.”

Suddenly, Erika heard something that caused her to jump.  She dropped the phone, and

then Logan heard it too.  She fumbled for the phone and it kept slipping from her fingers, they were shaking so hard.  By the time she had a grip on it, there was no time to say goodbye.  Logan’s whole body began to tremble when he heard Erika’s voice over the phone.  She sounded so far away.  ‘No, I wasn’t on the phone, I swear!  No, I wasn’t on—’ Right before the phone clicked dead, Logan heard something he would never forget – Erika screaming, and the loud crash that followed.

He sat down hard on the floor, his knees no longer able to hold him up.  A million

thoughts raced through his mind, and nothing seemed to make sense.  Nothing came together in a logical way.  He couldn’t allow himself to believe that what he’d just heard could mean something he knew he didn’t want to deal with.  Logan sat on the floor, his legs loosely crossed, his arms hanging limp at his sides.  His body trembled so hard that he found it difficult to breathe.  And as he stared at the phone on the floor before him, he saw the bright yellowish-green light flicker once and then fade as the phone shut itself off. 

*                    *                    *

Something was definitely wrong.  Logan knew by the silence.  Of course, Erika's house was usually silent at this hour, but that was almost always a direct result of her father's drinking.  This was a different kind of silence; a dark kind.  Finding the front door locked, he made his way through the bushes to Erika's bedroom window.  Logan rapped lightly on the window pane, frosted not by the cold, but by the dust inside her room.  Hearing nothing inside Logan began to worry more and sliding the window open with relative ease, he was greeted by a gust of warm, stale air.  Something was most certainly wrong, and the familiar stench of dry booze calmed his nerves only slightly.

            “Erika,” he whispered, not wanting to wake her father.  “Erika?”  Treading carefully across the floor he skirted the clutter in the hall and found the only light at the far end, seeping out from the bathroom.  There were mostly-empty liquor bottles all over the place, and Logan thought he’d pass out when he accidentally crunched a crumb-filled bag of chips next to the wall.  Got to be quiet, he cursed silently to nobody in particular and slid against the wall, stepping around a pile of laundry that smelled as though it could have been there for a few months.  The

sweat creeping down Logan’s back made him feel like there were hundreds of little wet insects

playing on his flesh.  In this house, there might as well be. 

As he made his way down the hall he passed the living room where the glow of the television outlined the sleeping form of Erika’s father.  He was snoring rather loudly and looked as though he had been for quite some time.  Fearful of waking the animal, but not able to tear his eyes away, Logan just stared at the pathetic scene.  The television cast a bluish haze around the room that seemed to shimmer and sway with the cloud of smoke hovering in the stale air.  Logan looked and found the source to be the overflowing ash tray on the lamp table next to the chair.  The rings from countless beers lay stained into the wood finish – a reminder of what really goes

on in this house, just in case anyone might forget.  Logan struggled to look away, trying to ignore it all.  He couldn’t wake up, not now.  He tried to convince himself, but the worm in his stomach and the sharp, foul taste of vomit in his mouth reminded Logan not to take any chances.

He pushed himself away in disgust and crept the rest of the distance to the bathroom and stopped in shock.  The door was only slightly ajar but much of the light filtering into the hall came from the gaping hole splintered in the middle of the door.

            “Erika?”  There was a shaking in his voice that he did not like.  He winced at the sight of the door knob, which was not where it should have been.  Pushing the door in as quietly as possible, Logan surveyed the scene in the bright bathroom.  There was water all over the floor and diluted streaks of blood on the walls.  The contents of the medicine cabinet were strewn about the floor, and the shower curtain had been torn from its rings.  Everything felt wrong, unsettling, and when his eyes landed on Erika’s motionless form, Logan felt as though he had been slugged in the stomach.

            “Erika,” he whispered, tears welling into his eyes.  Her hair was covering most of her face and the part that was visible was stained red.  It was matted and tangled, sticky with the blood that discolored her beautiful face.  Her body was severely bruised, mangled and lay in a most unnatural position.  Her left arm looked as though it were neatly laid beside her head, while the right was obviously broken, twisted up at the shoulder blade and draped over the center of her back.  More than one of her ribs were broken, crushed in on the right side.  The bruising on her stomach and chest was extensive, worse than he had ever seen. 

         The tears in Logan’s eyes began to drip down his reddening cheeks, and he felt hot and sick.  He fell to his knees next to Erika and rolled her gently to see her face.  Logan turned away suddenly and threw up onto the floor.  Erika’s nose was obviously broken, and her left eye was completely swollen shut.  Her mouth was open slightly, her jaw slack.  She was missing several teeth, and the blood from her mouth had pooled grotesquely at the corners, crusting on her lips.  Wiping vomit and tears onto the back of his sleeve, Logan squinted at his broken angel.  Several small splinters of wood protruded from Erika’s forehead and left cheek, and Logan suddenly realized where the giant hole in the bathroom door had come from.  He covered his mouth quickly and threw up again into his hand.

         He knew what had happened.  Got to think fast.  Got to do something.  Rising to his feet, Logan suddenly reached for the wall beside him as his knees wobbled, and he stumbled into the wall where a towel rack was once bolted.  I can’t leave her like this.  He staggered out into the hall, and made his way back to Erika’s room as quickly as his trembling legs would allow.  He did not stop to look into the living room this time.  His eyes were flooded with tears and they stung, and his mouth tasted vile.  He lunged for the open window, grateful for a mouthful of fresh air, and then set about the task at hand.

He grabbed the blanket from Erika’s bed and started back towards the door to the hall when he heard something softly hit the floor.  Turning back, he found a small, simple black notebook lying at the foot of the bed.  Logan let the blanket fall from his hand, and bent slowly to pick up the journal.  Sitting on the edge of the bed, he allowed his trembling fingers to trace the little design on the cover, and then opened to the middle, pushing the pages back against the covers.

         August fourteenth.  I hate my life.  I wish I would just die.  Why doesn’t he just kill me one of these nights?  Why does he keep me around?  I could do it.  I could take my own life. 

         

The paper was crinkled and the ink smudged in various spots on the page, where it appeared tear drops had fallen.  Logan flipped back the pages to a few weeks before.

         

July twelfth.  Another day, another way.  I can’t shake these feelings.  Perhaps I do not want to let them go.  I miss Logan.  That night we spent was magical.  So why did he have to tell me he was gay?  I didn’t need to know.  It could have stayed the same…

         

Logan lost focus as more tears seeped in to cloud his vision.  He felt sick; weak.  The last line on the page kept running through his head, haunting him in a way that brought the true realization of this night’s events into frightening understanding.  It couldn’t be possible.  It just couldn’t.  The diary slipped from his fingers, and he thought then that he would never forget the sound it made as it hit the carpeted floor at his feet, and the pages flipped closed.  Erika, she was pregnant.  The memories of that night in June came flooding back.  It was the first night of summer vacation, and Erika’s father had gone out with some guys from his work.  Logan’s hand strayed out of consciousness to a spot on the bed behind him.  His fingers shook as they traveled over the crumpled sheets where he had taken Erika’s virginity.  How she had loved him, and he wanted so much to return that love.  His fingers tightened around the sheet and Logan wept openly.  His whole body racked with sobs of anguish.  Why?!  Why did it happen like this?  How could I not have known? 

         He began to understand then – the baggy clothes, the quiet reclusion, and it all began to make sense.  She had been pregnant with his child.  And now she was gone.  They were both gone. 

Logan knew what he must do.  He dried his tears with the back of his hand, smearing the salty stinging liquid across his cheeks, and stood slowly, carefully.  As he did this, he bent down and retrieved the fallen diary, stuffing it into his right back pocket.  Logan picked up the

comforter from where he had dropped it on the floor near Erika’s bedroom door, and tread carefully back towards the bathroom.  He realized that it took him great effort to choke back the sobs that threatened to escape forcibly from his mouth, and stopped to swallow, then continued into the bathroom where Erika’s body lay.  He stooped slowly and brushed a bloody strand of hair from the side of her delicate face.  Logan watched as one, then two, and finally three tear drops pattered onto Erika’s forehead and closed eyelids.  They gleamed for only a second on her eyelashes, before Logan pulled the blanket over her body and up to cover her face.

         Again noticing the amount of effort it took him, Logan rose and stepped out of the bathroom, back to where Erika’s father lay in his chair in the living room.  That’s a good place for you… Logan thought to himself, as he found what he had been searching for.  Lying neatly beside the overcrowded ash tray on the lamp table was a plain, dark blue BIC lighter.  Logan reached out for it, and hesitated slightly as the man in the foul-smelling chair before him exhaled rather noisily and shifted his weight on the overused springs.  He picked up the lighter and turned

it around in his fingers, his mind racing through thoughts in his head, not at all stopping on one

or another in particular. 

         Logan took a step back and stumbled over a couple of partly drained bottles of beer and various other bottles of liquor.  Perfect.  He bent over the trash can beside the lamp table and thought for a moment that he might vomit again.  The stench was unbearable.  He glanced up at Erika’s father once, and then sparked the lighter a few times before it caught the contents of the trash can in a smoky, smoldering yellow flame.  Logan turned and walked out of the room without looking back, as the remnants of what appeared to be a microwavable burrito package caught fire and began to smolder with the rest of the liquor and shit.  He walked quickly back to the bathroom, barely aware of the smell anymore, or the trash littering the hall that may or may not wake the animal from his peaceful smoky slumber. 

         Dropping silently to his knees, Logan smoothed the blanket over Erika’s chest.  His tremulous fingers caused a pang of worry to suddenly erupt through his body, and he quickly smudged out the tears before gently lifting her body.  The blanket hung down, covering her        completely, and Logan wrapped it around her bottom as he slipped out of the bathroom and headed for the back door in the kitchen.  He never stopped to look in the living room – the heat pulsing on his already flushed skin as he passed the room was comfort enough.  Logan found Erika’s body manageable, the weight not nearly as oppressive as that of the grief and guilt that hung low in the pit of his stomach.  Still holding her body in both arms, Logan reached for the knob on the kitchen door and swung it open.  He stepped out into the crisp night air, and pulled the door closed behind him, making sure to lock it first.  When he heard it latch and then click, knowing that it had locked, Logan exhaled a cloud of mist that drifted up towards the stars, and then vanished.

He remembered a secluded spot in the woods, only a few hundred yards from where he

stood.  He and Erika used to play back there as children, building forts and running through piles of brush and climbing trees.  That was where we went, when things got rough.  Logan moved quickly throughout the trees, the thick layer of damp leaves beneath his feet muffling the sounds of his footsteps.  Stepping into a small clearing dotted through with patches of moonlight, Logan sunk to his knees and laid Erika’s body before him.  Visions of two, happy young children flooded in behind his eyes and projected themselves out among the trees surrounding him.  They were wild, free, and in love.  A single tear streamed down the left side of Logan’s face as he whispered:  “You’ll be happy here.  I’m sure you will.”  He choked a sob in his throat, before

plunging his strong hands into the wet earth.  I’ll always love you.

*                    *                    *

         Several hours passed before news of the fire found the school nurse.  She had seen it on the news and rushed out to her car in her bathrobe, curlers still in her hair.  When she arrived at what was once Erika’s house, there was already a crowd gathered – people with soulless, lifeless eyes just staring into the fire.  A neighbor had realized what was happening finally and called the fire department, but it had taken too long for them to get there.  The house was lost, and all they could do was try and keep the fire from spreading.

         The nurse looked around her bewildered, not even sure of what it was she hoped to see.  She recognized several of the children from school, and even Logan’s parents stood arm in arm with blank expressions on their faces that looked grotesque and frightening from the light of the fire.  And she saw Logan, standing alone far from the crowd.  There were no tears in his eyes.  When she looked back towards the house, she could not move.  She stood there stunned, then after a few moments, she began to cry.  And as she wept, the last of the dancing flames were silhouetted in the nurse’s eyes.