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Kellie R. England
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devilangel.jpg
Art by Lee Kuruganti 2010

Angel Killer

 

Kellie R. England

 

            God is a lie. I know that now, know it because the Devil has red hair and a voice like a pair of shears, cold and sharp and shiny and smooth, and if you don’t pay attention she’ll cut you down where you stand, and then you’ll know what I know, that there’s nothing within and he just said that to make a fool feel better about himself. I know all about it, and Hell isn’t fire and sulfur, it’s concrete and cold and empty, just like within. So there’s nothing. Nothing is your life and your death and your Heaven and your Hell, and if that’s what the Archangel meant then it’s just a way of saying that you’ve screwed up and now you’re screwed. Because no God or angel or prophet or priest can convince me that there’s anything left, or that I wasn’t right about the voices and now the Devil’s won and its their fault and my fault and salvation doesn’t matter because I’ve seen the universe and it’s nothing.

          It used to be that hearing voices made you a saint. All you had to do was claim that angels were speaking to you, and you’d be a holy man. Now you’re crazy. You’re crazy and they’ll send you to Hell early because they don’t want to deal with you or the voices, especially when you were right and you really do have an Angel and a Devil on either shoulder, and when you try to ignore the Devil she gets pissed and plots against you and you end up killing the Angel and then you’re screwed. So sorry, but we didn’t believe you and now She’s dead and it’s your fault and we’re sending you off to Hell. To nothing. Milton was wrong and Sartre was right. Satan was right too, because when he says he wants someone’s soul I don’t see how he won’t be able to get it. Angels are too pure to expect a Devil’s ingenuity.

          Knock, knock. Speak of the Devil, ha ha. It’s not funny but it makes me want to laugh. Laugh like a sick man. She likes to visit me now that the Angel is dead. She likes to remind me that I belong to her and there’s nothing I can do about it. I used to be angry, red-visioned with rage, but then I went to Hell and I was tired. Now when she visits I just listen. Sometimes my silence makes her worried, like I’m planning something in my head, which is silly because she could just steal those thoughts away if I had them. She probably is, stealing them away before I even acknowledge them, and then I can sit and listen to the sound of the shears ripping me apart. It’s strange that she doesn’t steal the memories of the Angel, but maybe those are holy somehow and she can’t touch them. Maybe that’s just part of Hell, though, leaving the happy thoughts to remind me I was too weak to fight and to be weak is to be miserable.

          “Hello,” she said, voice cutting through the empty. Her minions are with her, blank-faced men with thick arms and white coats. The Devil has red, red hair. One of the minions brings me a paper cup of water and four little capsules to swallow. That’s what they do in Hell, by the way, they make you swallow poison twice a day and you have to do it or else they force you and then you’re tired and sick and dizzy for hours after. I take the poison and give the cup back to the blank-faced minion. The Devil nods her head once, the others leave. I’m alone with her.

          “How are you?” she asks. She always asks how I’m doing, knowing the answer and relishing the sarcasm. I hate her voice. Her words are clipped and scientific like the scissors they use to keep my hair and nails short and controlled. She doesn’t sound like my Angel did, with a voice of paper or cotton, light and fluttery and soft.

The Devil reaches forth and touches my cheek. I pull away. Her fingers are like hot metal, and I can hear her breathing quicken. Like she gets off on this. She puts on a mask of emotional hurt. I hate her and I wish I could slap it off of her but I’m too tired now from the poison and my head is spinning a little. “I know you’re angry with me,” she says, stepping back. She’s still close enough that I can smell her perfume. She smells like lavender. The Devil has a sense of humor.

          “I know you’re mad,” she says again, “but that will pass. You’re with me again, where you belong.”

          Maybe she’s right. I was here once before, only I didn’t know it was Hell. I just knew I was lost to the world and no one cared except the red-headed Devil in the white coat who fed me poison. And then She came to rescue me. I confessed my sins and was purged, and I left Hell in the Angel’s arms. For a long time I was happy, and the only voice I ever heard was Hers, and I even started to believe that God did forgive sinners until the Devil came back with all the fury of a scorned woman and then She was dead and I was here. Where I belong.

          “Yes,” she says, suddenly encouraged. “Yes, you belong with me, Michael.”

          Michael. I used to love the name but now I hate it, like I hate the Devil and myself and everything. She says it with an evilness wrapping her wicked lips around a holy name, making something personal and sweet into something cloying and sick. Michael, Michael. He was an angel you know, which just makes it funny that I should share his name because I am an angel killer. Me but not me. But maybe Michael isn’t so great after all because what did he ever do for mankind except give a long empty speech about virtue and how everything would be okay if you thought it would be and it was all a bunch of crap. You’d think God could do better than to offer cloying words of superiority in the face of absolute and utter repentance, but clearly he didn’t because Adam and Eve never saw Eden again and I will never see anything but the empty within of Hell and myself.

          “Michael,” she says again, kneeling beside me. I look at her expectantly so she’ll get on with today’s torture and I might be without the voices for a little while. “Michael, you forgive me, don’t you? You didn’t mean to do it, did you? I know you love me under everything inside, and you know I don’t care about your condition. I’ll take care of you. I’ll always take care of you.”

          I don’t want her love or her care or her falsely pathetic tones. Adam and Eve remained faithful but I wasn’t modeled in God’s image and I couldn’t forgive the person who took away my Angel. Angels marrying angel killers, lions and lambs and unnaturalness and then God says no and the inevitable happens. The natural happens. Angel killers marry demons.

          “Please don’t be like that,” the Devil says. Her eyes grow large and bright, trying to draw me in. “Michael, we used to be so happy. Don’t you remember?”

          I remember, but it wasn’t happy. This place swallowed happy and spit out the acid-washed bones of disappointment and lamentation to lay desolate and forgotten in the corner.

          “No, not here,” she says with a laugh, sharp and desperate and unnatural. “When we were home. Do you remember our wedding? I thought you were so handsome in your tuxedo, and you let me choose lavender even though you don’t like it…”

          My wedding had been a long time ago, but my Bride had dark straight hair and wings that reached up high and white toward Heaven while Her eyes fixed themselves on my face. She had been alive and then dead, and the blood, the blood was all over our house and Her dress and my hands and the Devil’s hair. No red, no lavender.

          “Don’t lie to me, Michael!” she cries. “You can’t torture me forever just because I made some mistakes!”

          I don’t understand her anymore, but I don’t mind. I try not to think about what new ploy this is to confound me.

          “Michael. That’s a lovely name.”

          Lovely lovely. She is so Lovely. Long straight dark hair, hair that doesn’t lie, twisted devious lies. Her voice is so gentle, so soft, straight and dark, like supple leather.

          “You’ve been here a year, Michael, so I brought you something. It’s a crane. Origami. See? The head moves like this…”

          “You’ve been here two years, Michael, so I bought you a pillowcase. It’s cotton. The doctors said it was okay. You said your favorite color is green...”

          “Well, I suppose this is goodbye, Michael. I’m…” Tears in Her eyes, like God-given raindrops. “I used to think that you were a blessing. Because of your name, you know. I needed something to believe in. Gabrielle and Michael. But you need to go now, far away from this place because I know how they treated you before, like you weren’t a person…”

          And Gabrielle in Her white, white gown, train trailing behind, Sweetness and Weakness left in Her wake, pink lips and white teeth laughing and smiling over the golden glow of champagne and the ring sparkling on Her finger and Her promise I promise never to leave you to love you forever Michael you’re my Angel and I’m yours

          “Michael!”

          Like paper and cotton and leather She is torn in two by the voice, red-laced and twisted twisted spiraled tones. I twist and turn, clutching the pillowcase but now it’s white and stiff and smells like starch.

          “Michael, don’t talk about Her!” the Devil says, like a wounded beast. “She is nothing, do you understand? Nothing! I am your wife!”

          She cries, dark tears that leave thick streaks down her colorless cheeks. She’s never been like this before and I sit quietly, waiting for the punch line.

          “Oh, Michael,” she weeps in false tragedy. “You never will forgive me, will you? How many times will I have to say I’m sorry?”

          against the throne and monarchy of God raised impious war

          “Don’t do this, Michael…”

          with hideous ruin and combustion down to bottomless perdition

          “No, please…”

          where peace and rest can never dwell, hope never comes

          “It was my fault!” the Devil shrieks. “I didn’t mean it! Oh, God, Michael, I knew you weren’t well, and I was just so tired of taking care of you – I never meant to say that – I never meant for you to …I never wanted you to kill yourself!”

          Kill, kill, kill. I am the Angel killer, of Gabrielle and Michael.

          “But God gave me a second chance, Michael. Don’t you see that? He brought you back to me…a second chance…”

          how wearisome Eternity so spent in worship paid to whom we hate

          false angel false repentance

          my Angel where is my Angel are there second chances

          “I am your angel, Michael! You have me and you don’t need anyone else!”

          Gabrielle…

“That Woman was not your true wife – I am! How could that Woman – a nurse – have the ambitious aim to overstep my superiority?”

          Oh, I see, I see how clear it all is now, how she isn’t really Satan or Lucifer or whatever name he has been given. She might aspire to be and she does his work willingly enough but she had a motive and I see now how it had become her. She is just like me, had listened to the voices and chosen the Devil and once she had her own angel and just like me she had killed him. The difference between us was that I didn’t make a deal to bring Her back and she thought I could be her Angel but she isn’t mine and never could become Her. Oh Doctor Faustus, don’t you know how the story ends?

          “Michael, hush. I cannot understand why the medication isn’t working any more…I don’t understand…”

          Doctor Faustus I can feel the fire

          “Don’t speak like that. Oh, why isn’t it working?” The fire was black in her eyes, glassy wet fiery eyes. Oh silly stupid superiority

          “Do you really think everything was so perfect with Her?” Fiery eyes, fiery hair. “Do you wonder how it happened, Michael? Did you think that She could cure you? Sugar and Sweetness. If only she had published that in a journal silly doctors like me could cure all schizophrenics with a spoon of sugar and you would be perfectly sane again…” Her tone calms and turns cold. Ice. Her eyes are black. “That’s what I did, you know. I let your Mary Poppins cure you with Her smiles and sweetness. Your whole life was so sweet then I bet even your pills began to taste of it. Did you notice? How you begged me to help you, to keep Her safe – Her, when it was me who had kept you healthy! I helped you well enough by giving you those pills and allowing your reason to return. You killed Her and now look! You’re back where you belong!”

          no she didn’t she couldn’t SHE KILLED GABRIELLE THROUGH ME

          “Michael, you mustn’t listen to the voices anymore. They only want to hurt you. Listen to me. Listen only to me. Let me drown the others.”

          Hello, Michael. You look well today.

          Only when I hear your voice.

          Are you still hearing voices?

          Yours is louder, always stronger and sweeter.

          KILLED HER THROUGH ME

          Yes, Michael, listen only to me and I will drive the others away.

          Keep talking, Gabrielle. Never stop talking or the other – the other –

          Michael, what are you doing? Michael, no, put down the knife –

          And Michael’s flaming sword stood against him and struck down an Angel and then the uniformed minions stole it away so that Lucifer was free to approach Heaven

          “Michael, listen to me. Listen to me!”

          Suddenly it was there, gleaming from afar beside the clipboard that recorded Hell’s tortures and I seize it with both hands and

          only add deeds to thy knowledge answerable, add faith

          struck her with God’s fury and

          add virtue, patience, temperance, add love

          she shrieked like Sin herself and the sword

          by name to come called charity, the soul of all the rest

          the sword is slick and warm and red

          “Michael! Oh, God…!”

          then wilt thou not be loath to leave this Paradise, but shall possess a paradise within thee, happier far

          And then the Devil’s voice stops, stops after so many years of whispers and wooing, stops as she stopped the Angel’s Heavenly murmurs and then there is nothing because that is what’s within, within thee, within me.

          I hear shouts but they are not in my head. The Devil’s red hair leaks over the floor, eyes black and blank, lips accusing, cursing God and the angels as I curse them and wonder if I shall die now that the voices are dead.

          Michael, Michael.

          And I hear Her, once more before my eyes darken.

          Michael, I have been waiting for you. Come to me.

          I hear the frantic steps of the demons. They grow quiet. Everything grows quiet except Her voice and I embrace it and breathe it until I can’t breathe any more.

          Michael come to me

          “Yes,” I say, “I will come to you, my paradise within.”

          within, within, and happier

          far

 

 

Kellie's previous work has been accepted by Storylandia, The Medulla Review, and The Cynic Online. She resides in California, where she attends CSUS for chemistry and English literature.

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