Her Guardian Angel

The room looks different in the half-light.

In the day, the sun beams brightly through the bay window; casting its friendly rays over the inhabitants of the space.

Already gaily coloured in synthetic, cheerful oranges, pinks and yellows, these are Becky’s friends:

Her stuffed toy collection- a mishmash of chewed-eared rabbits, sagging bears and scraggly rag dolls with buttons for eyes and threads trailing loose form their patchwork dresses.
Her paintings- unidentifiable splodges and smears of vivid poster paints on all manner of materials.
Paper; lined, plain, left over wrap from long ago Christmas gifts.
The cardboard from cereal packets, old birthday cards, pages torn from books read once and discarded, even wallpaper ripped from various unseen patches around the house- behind the sofa, down the back of the radiator, that bit under the stairs that no-one notices anyway.

They clamour for space and attention on every surface.

To Becky, as to the eye of any budding artist, these swirls and stabs are flowers, animals, her family, her friends at the day centre.
Everywhere in the room is colour. It’s a cacophony of girly fuchsia and sharp citruses.

Now, at night, the colours are dulled. Every hue is washed to a dull shade of grey.
The toys seem sinister in the faint and eerie glow of the nightlight. Their shadows drape over walls and furniture like marionettes with their strings severed.
The paintings no longer visible except as thin slices of paler ash.

Becky doesn’t like the dark.
When the lights are off, she sees things. Creatures dancing round the perimeters of her room, teasing, taunting.
They creep up to the edges of the weak pool cast by the nightlight, and skip away again, snickering.
Becky knows that the light keeps her safe. But still she’s afraid.

She’s lived in the same house her whole life. Every morning, her mum comes in and combs her blonde hair for her, in front of that same mirror over there which even now is reflecting all the horrors of hell back to her.
Behind the glass, unspoken terrors writhe and howl and call to her. One reaches a hand out. The glass shimmers, stretches like cling film.
It’s going to break through!

Becky screams, long and loud and shrill.
Instantly, lights are flipped on across the hall and footsteps hurry across. As the harsh yellow of the light peers under the bedroom door, the horrors retreat.

In seconds, Becky’s parents are with her.
Her mother, a greying woman with weary eyes, holds her close and makes shushing sounds.
Her father, scratching his belly and looking irritable, does a sweep of the room.
It is a situation they have found themselves in virtually every night for the past thirty three years.

Gracie James sighs as she looks at the shaking woman in her arms.
Her blonde hair is tousled, her blue eyes clenched shut.
Gracie can feel Becky’s breasts pushing against her body as her daughter clings so tightly to her.

For thirty three years, Paul and Gracie James have cared for their daughter as best they know how.
It hasn’t always been easy. There have been times when Becky has very nearly ended up in serious trouble, particularly where men are involved.
It wasn’t their fault, really. Any man seeing a beauty like Becky would cast an appreciative glance or two, or let out a whistle of approval.

But if it went further than that, the resulting confusion and upset was a lot to cope with. Becky didn’t understand why a man would want to be anything more than a friend to her.
She was a sunny child, and friendly to a fault.
The problems really arose when she couldn’t comprehend why they would want to do anything other than see her teddy collection.
Then they got angry, convinced she was some sort of tease, making jibes at their masculinity; and she would be afraid, and cry. Luckily, Paul and Gracie had always been on hand to protect her.
And, for the most part, they were successful.
She had reached her thirty third birthday happy, healthy, and loved.

But they couldn’t protect her from the dark. Even the night light had done little to allay her fears. Every night, they were woken by her terrified screams and incomprehensible babbling.
They were getting on in years, and were beginning to find it a struggle.
“Baby,” soothed Gracie, “it’s ok, we’re here. Mummy and Daddy are here. See-“ she pointed to where Paul was standing, hands in his hair, staring at the ceiling in frustration.
”Daddy has made sure the room’s safe- Haven’t you?” she prompted, irked by his lack of compassion.
“Every bloody night!” he muttered.
Becky howled as she registered his tone.
Paul exploded, his weariness getting the better of him.
“For gods’ sake, Becks, it’s three in the morning!” More cries.
Gracie narrowed her eyes. “Don’t you dare make this worse!” she hissed.
Paul sighed and composed himself. He came and perched on the end of the pink quilted bed and took his daughter’s hand.
The light from the landing streamed onto her upturned face and he felt ashamed of himself. He wiped her tears away with his thumb.
He gathered her up in his arms and rocked her- his only child, who looked like a woman but thought like an infant.

“Look,” he intoned softly, “I’m sorry I shouted. I’m tired, that’s all.”
Becky blinked. Paul smiled at her. “See? I’m not mad at all. Sometimes, I just get upset because you are upset and it makes me sound mad. Do you understand?”
Becky nodded slowly.
“Ok, now I think it’s time we all went back to bed, don’t you?”
She shook her head vehemently, golden locks cascading around her shoulders.
“No, Daddy. Stay.”
“We can’t, sweetie,” Gracie said. “Both Daddy and I have to go to work in the morning, you know that.”
Becky regarded her with hurt in her forget-me-not eyes.
“You’ll be perfectly safe. Your angel will look after you.”Gracie smiles at him. Good idea, Paul.

“A- ane gull?” Becky sniffled, wiping her hand across her nose.
“Ane-gel, honey.” He corrects gently. “Angel.”
He sits her back in bed and tucks the covers up to her chin.
“Angels are the special people that God sends to look after little children. They watch over you all the time and keep you safe. So even if it’s dark and Mummy and Daddy are asleep, there is still always someone with you.”

Becky smiled and Paul felt his heart melt. She was so guileless, so innocent. In some ways he envied her. Trapped in permanent childhood- she would never need to know many of the world’s evils. She was safe and secure in her bubble, and her fears few and unfounded.
“What does my angel look like? Is it a boy or a girl?”
“I don’t know, honey,” he replied, “I’ve never seen him or her. They can only be seen by very special people, like Jesus and the Queen.” He winked conspiratorially at his wife and continued. “But they have big feathery wings and are very different from us.”

Comforted, Becky snuggles down below her quilt. It’s new-cotton scratchy against her cheek, and smells of Persil and her mother’s perfume. Musky and pungent, but not unpleasant.
Her parents take turns to ruffle her hair and plant kisses on her cheeks.
She closes her eyes and holds her breath as she hears the light click off. She bites her bottom lip and lets the air escape. She remembers what has been said and feels emboldened.
“My angel will look after me,” she murmurs, falling back asleep, fingers entwined in her own hair.

She awoke with a start. Something had changed. What was it? Noise?
She listened carefully. No, not noise. The house is silent, the only sound the faint drone of the fridge downstairs.
What, then?
She opens her eyes to slits. She sees nothing out of the ordinary.
In fact, she sees nothing.
Nothing!!!
Panicking, Becky realises that the nightlight has gone out. Its familiar glow is not longer playing over the room. She can’t see anything in any detail. Her eyes are adjusting to the darkness slowly, but there’s not enough light in the room to so much as outline her favourite toys.
Her heart is alternately pounding and crawling in her chest, unsure whether to beat faster in terror or stop altogether.
In the shadows, she senses them. Without the nightlight, she fears they will be able to reach the bed, sneak clawed hands beneath the covers and grab at her thin ankles; drag her through the mirror to their reversed world.
She thinks of calling her parents again- her mouth opens, but she remembers they need to be up for work soon.
-I need to be a big girl for Mummy and Daddy.
-I need to escape!
She thinks both of these simultaneously, and common sense wins out.
“My angel will protect me,” she whispers into the night. “My angel will protect me.”
A low chuckle in response. Within the laugh, sounds like legions of tortured souls crying are audible.
As though whoever is laughing has swallowed the voices of every one of them.

A glow not much brighter than the broken nightlight begins to emit from somewhere at the edge of the bed.
Again, Becky goes to scream, but what she sees stops her.
A man, or at least he could be described as such. He stands like a man, but it is clear that he is not human. A full seven feet tall, he towers like a tree over Becky’s bed.
The light is coming from him. Becky can’t understand how he is doing it. There appears to be no source for it. It is almost as if he is the light.
He is white as the moon, his face the most beautiful Becky has ever seen, with unfathomable eyes. Becky can’t tell what colour they are in the dim light, but they seem to look right inside her.
He is naked. Becky blushes, but can’t stop herself from staring. She has never seen a man without clothes before. His body is hairless and smooth. She can see not a single outline of either muscle or bone anywhere on his body. It’s as if he is constructed purely from light.
Protruding from his back are a pair of large, feathery wings.

Becky leaps from her bed, fear forgotten.
Her father was right! Not only does she have a guardian angel, but he’s here! She can see him!
She runs to him, where he is waiting now with arms outstretched.

“You came to protect me,” she beams, hurrying towards him, “Thank goodness!”

As she reaches him, he snarls and grabs her delicate throat with his claw-like hand.
Her jugular is severed before she has a chance to scream.

As Lucifer ruffles his black wings and sups the blood spurting from the wound, he smiles.
And says, in a voice both sweet and horrific, “Goodness has nothing to do with it.”