geist engel

Engel Vogel closed the bedroom door behind him. A blessed and rare moment of quiet as his parents left the house. But in the silence, the mostly empty room of ratty toys he'd grown out of ages ago, what was there to do but mull over his lot in life?

This quiet introspection became a regular facet of his life since he'd been old enough to comprehend it. It didn't matter what he did within the walls of this house. All of it was wrong. That's what they told him. Excitement, enthusiasm, pride, all emotions that would be shot down the moment he had them, either through the distant, irritated glances of his mother or the more active punishments his father would give him.

Clearly, he wasn't meant to have them.

It was alright, he thought. For a while his youthful self had fought against the treatment, unable to understand why those that were meant to nurture and raise him would treat him this way. If they didn't want him, then why did they exist. He screamed, he cried. He created quite a fuss when he was struck or ignored.

It lasted maybe four years. By age five, he'd given up. The why didn't matter. The pain no longer mattered. The boy would merely exist, and the lack of showing emotion spared him from some of the treatment.

Not to say that it still didn't happen. Physical blows became less common because they no longer drew a reaction. Desperate to assert some more sense of control over a small child, his father decided to restrict his food, seeing how long the boy could go before he'd "earned" it.

The times went longer and longer until life blurred into a haze of constant stomachaches and unfocused thoughts. But that just made it easier not to think about things too hard.

But, try as he might, the emotions remained, balling up into a cancer in his head, ever looming and creeping into what thoughts he did have. It spoke to him. It echoed those words that he heard every day from the outside, welling up into a chorus on the inside. Even what little he was given, he did not deserve. If there were ever a moment that he could be happy, it should immediately be replaced by guilt, and was. The few times he left home, spent time with people who fussed and worried over him before he was quickly rushed away before they noticed too much, an awful self-hatred would grow inside him.

What an awful child you are, for making them worry. For asking for anything. An awful idea struck him, and he ran to the bathroom for the first time to rid himself of what he was given.

Again and again, every time he ate, it became a habit. Keep it long enough to avoid making a scene, and then throw it away. His throat was burned raw, his teeth sensitive to the slightest touch, but in a way he grew to almost find the pain comforting. It was something to feel. It was what he deserved.

Soon his skin clung tightly to his sides, the bones starting to protrude, but still no one noticed. He'd not been allowed to leave the house when they saw how gaunt he'd become. He remembered the frantic scurrying at the distant sounds of knocks on the door, muffled from his weakened state but every day the process would repeat itself. Someone out there was worried about him. They shouldn't be. He hadn't earned their kindness. He never would.

One day he heard them talking in the front room. The words were muddled, but there was a tone of relief in their voices. He heard his name a few times. Engel. Angel. What a name to give to a child he was sure they were hoping would die soon, so he wouldn't be a burden any longer.

He'd give them their wish.

Curling up into bed, he put the covers above his head and closed his eyes. He'd become so weak... not that he had ever been strong, but he could feel his body failing. It'd been on its way out for weeks now. And finally it was time to let go, no matter how long it took. They wouldn't mind. They wouldn't notice.

Gradually, the world faded away, and the pain stopped.

--

He awoke to a knock on the door.

He kicked away the darkness around him in a blind burst of energy at the sound, faced with the light from his window. He'd /heard/ something. why did he care? Wasn't he supposed to be dead?

There was another knock.

Looking around the room, he noticed something odd, floating a foot above his bed. An angel, almost the same size as him, looking for all the world like a glass ornament. Its face was smooth and stylized, round wings fluttering gently behind it, with delicately-painted features. Its robe flowed around a shapeless form, not silk but a strange, pure white leather.

Its eyes never opened, but still he could tell it was looking at him. Another knock on the door.

/Go./

He heard the words, but at the same time didn't hear them. Either way, he understood. He /had/ died. But he'd returned, and as foolish as it may have been, he felt a spark in his chest. Something bright and alive that had been missing for years.

Hope.

He stood up and staggered to the door. Body still weak, but he kept going, finally being the one to answer the door and letting those there see the emaciated form of the twelve year old boy, stunted so badly he looked three years younger.

He'd finally found something to keep living for. Now if only he could figure out what that was.