Prompt # 2
And the Angels
“And the angels, all pallid and wan, uprising, unveiling, affirm, That the play is the tragedy ‘Man,’ and its hero the Conqueror worm.” - a verse that kept repeating in his thoughts when the news came. He did not remember where it came from or any other verses that surrounded it, though he had a dreadful feeling it was the last line.
With the television on, the light flickering through a dimly lit hall, the voices tinny and excited, he made his way to the kitchen. He drank water from the tap. He went back and watched more news. Every channel had it, every single one. Fear could be seen in the faces of the newscasters. He returned to the kitchen and got another drink. He saw the calendar on the wall. It was Monday. That was when he noticed his hand shaking.
On Tuesday he awoke to the sounds of a crash outside in the street. He did not investigate. He made himself coffee and sat down in an old arm chair, allowing the familiar contours to cradle his sore body with visible relief. The television flickered then flared up in front of him.
It had not been just a bad dream.
Images were being played of the thing that had appeared that was stretching, serpentine like, through the solar system. They did not know where it had come from, nor how it had escaped their attention. Some made bold proclamations, and some claimed nothing at all. But all the voices on the television were resigned and cold, reflecting duty not passion.
He shuddered, aware of a sudden draft, aware of every sound that now surrounded him, that made the familiar seem so nuanced, so fragile. He turned off the television and looked over at the phone. But he remained in his chair.
He did not turn on the television on Wednesday. The sounds from the street were all he needed to know that nothing had changed. Nothing would change. Cars went by too fast, people yelled, and loud speakers urged something of him and his neighbors. He ignored it.
From his closet he pulled out his old Remington rifle, whisking away a layer of dust with a wave of his hand. He cleaned it, checked it, and then placed it in his bedroom with a box of ammunition. In the afternoon he turned the heat up, stretched slowly, and took a screwdriver to the front door to make sure that bolts were tight.
At 3pm, when he was finished, he paused and took in a sudden silence. At that time the distant sounds of an orchestra appeared to him, playing mournfully, seeping through every crack and crevice. But when he shook his head, uncertain, it was gone. He looked at the phone, but he didn’t pick it up. He went to bed early.
That night sleep did not come easily and early on Thursday the percussive sounds of explosions woke him. Sweat dripped from his nose, and his chest rose and fell with a trembling motion. In the living room he watched from his chair as red and blue lights and a fast white light darted through the dusty blinds of his home, painting his wall with the scattered reflections of his few belongings.
He saw the phone again, reached for it this time, stretched his cold fingers, and then he dialed her number.
“Papa,” the voice said. He could hear the tears in her voice, the restrained panic.
“Princess,” was all he could bring himself to say.
“I’m scared.”
“I know.” He didn’t have anything else to add. As he waited the panic broke through her facade, the tears became sobs, hoarse moans, and anguished wails. After ten or so minutes she quieted and he repeated, “I know.” They would be the last words he spoke to her.
He fell asleep in the chair, jerking awake at the pop and boom of every gunshot, a tear running down his cheek.
On Friday the neighborhood was quiet. He woke up, made himself an omelet with organic veggies and low fat cheese. He took a shower and enjoyed the warm water for longer than usual. Afterword he pulled the ladder from the garage, took his time setting it up, and then climbed the steps, one at a time, into the attic.
Debris littered the small space, but he found the two boxes he was looking for. The first was a large wooden trunk. He opened it and took out the contents one piece at a time. There were photo albums and various clothes. There was a wedding dress, old and filled with moth eaten holes, but when he held it to his nose he could still smell the perfume from his wife’s body. At the bottom of the trunk he found girl’s baby clothes, stretched out and dirty from wear. And then he found a picture - of him, Gloria, and his princess. He stared at the smiles, at the remembrance of happiness and felt nothing but an empty hollow within his chest. Slowly he put each object back, folding them just so.
The second box was small, but he saved it for last. His hands shook so bad he had trouble untying the laces around it. Inside was a flag, worn but still bright, a box with a medal (a purple heart), and piece of shrapnel. When he had the metal in his hand he could feel the familiar cold throb in his shoulder. Last was a black and white picture. A young woman in a nurse’s outfit, straight blonde hair, another smile.
He took a deep breath, held the picture to his chest and began to weep, not uncontrollably, but steady and without any end in sight. He did not remember falling asleep.
That same verse remembered, played through his head as he awoke, disconcerted and cold. Something was coming. Something terrible was coming. In the bathroom he worked lotion over his skin, rubbed his joints and washed his face. It was Saturday. The world was quiet but punctuated by sudden and angry noises.
He tried to make coffee but the water spilled over. The eggs burned as well. Tired, he went outside, found his lawnmower and began to mow the lawn. There weren’t many cars going by. When they did, some slowed down to watch him, but he ignored them. Some people stuck their heads out and yelled, but he didn’t listen.
The sun was high and merciless, sweat and pieces of grass irritated his skin. Smoke from a fire heaved and roiled on the horizon, mere blocks away. A brown haze from further away, and much bigger, dirtied the lower half of the sky, painting his world in a yellow pall.
Inside, he showered. He pulled on his pajamas slowly and lay in bed. His left arm felt numb and he massaged it and tried to breathe deeply. He could not sleep.
Sunday. A day of rest, he thought. The world was silent.
He showered again. He checked the thermostat. He pulled an old suit from the closet and, although it was too large, he ironed it and put it on. In the dresser he found the gold cuff links that Gloria had bought for him so many years ago, and he put those on as well. He found his wallet and keys. In the kitchen he pulled down a bottle of whiskey and sipped it from a tall glass.
Finally, at noon exactly, he went outside. It had already begun.
It was just as he imagined. Dark. Darker than any cloud he had ever seen. It spun, and coiled in the sky, tendrils of black nothing reaching out to devour all in its path. People lined the sidewalks, coming out to see the end. Mothers held their sons and daughters and muttered empty words. Fathers stood stoic and hopeless. All remained silent.
It moved to cover the sun, a black boiling thing, a shadow racing across the ground. He did not wait to see the finish. He went inside, leaving the door unlocked. He went to the bedroom and lay down on the bed, not bothering to pull the covers around him.
As the light went the colors did too. In the pitch black that followed he heard noises, crashing and screams of panic, but they felt heavy and distant, as though funneled through from another world. At some point, he did not know how long, he imagined he could see sparks and small lights arching between undetermined lines. But he could not be sure.
The tears of angels, he thought. Angels sitting and watching in a theatre. Angels sobbing as they watch the final act play out. And, from a distance again, he heard the mournful music, the weepy strings and guttural bellows of horns, the orchestra breathing.
The air grew heavy and he gave a final sigh, wept a final tear, and felt all his thoughts depart.