pictures in books or napping or stroking Virgil in his lap. The monks would believe him gone from the area by this time, I thought, and my unease lessened.
And then one evening I came home to find Mrs. Hanson dead on the landing outside my apartment door.
She was unmarked, but her eyes stared upward, glassy. The door frame was splintered, and I burst into the apartment with my blood roaring through my head.
At first I thought my vision was blackening, until I realized it was the blood sprayed and splashed upon the walls, Virgil sitting on the backrest of the couch contentedly licking the blood that matted his fur. I stifled a scream at the carnage strewn on the floor of the parlor. Two ruins, which appeared to have once been men, and which appeared from their shredded black garb to have once been clerics of some kind. My seraph still crouched over one of them, the corpse’s head cradled in his lap. Alarmed, he looked up with a lupine snarl, his teeth coated thickly in gore, and I knew that this was the sight that had stopped the old heart of dear Mrs. Hanson.
Trembling, relieved and horrified at once, I pulled the door shut behind me and managed to bolt it. Despite my terrible nausea, my feverish dizziness, I was not afraid of him. And he, also, stopped his savage growling when he recognized me. He lowered his head, as though ashamed, and lowered the mauled red ball of the monk’s head to the floor. I saw a dagger near this corpse, and a bottle of holy water spilled by the other, soaking into an already red-soaked throw rug.
He helped me drag Mrs. Hanson into the room, and by then I had arrived at the only decision I could come to. I helped him wash the blood from his hands, his body, his wings. This time he consented to a full bath, and it seemed to calm both of us.
I packed several suitcases. I selected a sweat-shirt and some sweat-pants I thought would fit him until I could buy him some clothing of his own.
From the generous tool box my father had lovingly equipped for me I raised a hacksaw. I showed it to the seraph. I moved it in the air to demonstrate its function. He sat on a chair and bowed his head in understanding, submitting to a cruelty worse even than those inflicted upon him by his captors. But we had no choice. In order to be free, both of us, I had to cut away the very symbols of his freedom…
And while I sliced them away, awash in my angel’s blood, I shook hard with sobs just as he did, tears blurring my vision like the tears of blood on his beautiful face…agonized, as if it were my own wings I was severing.
Mrs. Weekes
Mrs. Ferrin rested a hand like a ginseng root atop the smooth young hand of Kelly Bonham, who was new at Eastborough Nursing Home. Kelly leaned over the elderly woman indulgently, though she knew she suffered Alzheimer’s Disease quite severely. “Yes, Mrs. Ferrin?”
“She was here again, last night,” the emaciated creature whispered urgently in a creaky voice, as if autumn leaves rustled in her scarecrow’s throat. “I saw her come into the room…crawling on all fours. She stopped and looked over at me and, and hissed, then she went on again…she looked like a crab, scuttling…and she went over there, to poor Mrs. Carter’s bed.”
Kelly glanced over at Mrs. Ferrin’s room-mate, Mrs. Carter. She had deteriorated badly in just the one week since Kelly had started on the third shift at this hospital. For the first couple of days, Mrs. Carter had actually been quite charming, talkative and lucid, had shown Kelly pictures of her grandchildren. Now, her eyes and mouth gaped emptily at the ceiling, and Kelly might easily have taken her for dead. It was very upsetting, and something she doubted she would ever grow used to no matter how many years she stayed in this work.
Mrs. Ferrin went on, “Then she climbed up beside the bed, and put her mouth over Mrs. Carter’s mouth, as if she was…kissing her. Poor Mrs. Carter. I saw her legs move a little and I heard her
And then one evening I came home to find Mrs. Hanson dead on the landing outside my apartment door.
She was unmarked, but her eyes stared upward, glassy. The door frame was splintered, and I burst into the apartment with my blood roaring through my head.
At first I thought my vision was blackening, until I realized it was the blood sprayed and splashed upon the walls, Virgil sitting on the backrest of the couch contentedly licking the blood that matted his fur. I stifled a scream at the carnage strewn on the floor of the parlor. Two ruins, which appeared to have once been men, and which appeared from their shredded black garb to have once been clerics of some kind. My seraph still crouched over one of them, the corpse’s head cradled in his lap. Alarmed, he looked up with a lupine snarl, his teeth coated thickly in gore, and I knew that this was the sight that had stopped the old heart of dear Mrs. Hanson.
Trembling, relieved and horrified at once, I pulled the door shut behind me and managed to bolt it. Despite my terrible nausea, my feverish dizziness, I was not afraid of him. And he, also, stopped his savage growling when he recognized me. He lowered his head, as though ashamed, and lowered the mauled red ball of the monk’s head to the floor. I saw a dagger near this corpse, and a bottle of holy water spilled by the other, soaking into an already red-soaked throw rug.
He helped me drag Mrs. Hanson into the room, and by then I had arrived at the only decision I could come to. I helped him wash the blood from his hands, his body, his wings. This time he consented to a full bath, and it seemed to calm both of us.
I packed several suitcases. I selected a sweat-shirt and some sweat-pants I thought would fit him until I could buy him some clothing of his own.
From the generous tool box my father had lovingly equipped for me I raised a hacksaw. I showed it to the seraph. I moved it in the air to demonstrate its function. He sat on a chair and bowed his head in understanding, submitting to a cruelty worse even than those inflicted upon him by his captors. But we had no choice. In order to be free, both of us, I had to cut away the very symbols of his freedom…
And while I sliced them away, awash in my angel’s blood, I shook hard with sobs just as he did, tears blurring my vision like the tears of blood on his beautiful face…agonized, as if it were my own wings I was severing.
Mrs. Weekes
Mrs. Ferrin rested a hand like a ginseng root atop the smooth young hand of Kelly Bonham, who was new at Eastborough Nursing Home. Kelly leaned over the elderly woman indulgently, though she knew she suffered Alzheimer’s Disease quite severely. “Yes, Mrs. Ferrin?”
“She was here again, last night,” the emaciated creature whispered urgently in a creaky voice, as if autumn leaves rustled in her scarecrow’s throat. “I saw her come into the room…crawling on all fours. She stopped and looked over at me and, and hissed, then she went on again…she looked like a crab, scuttling…and she went over there, to poor Mrs. Carter’s bed.”
Kelly glanced over at Mrs. Ferrin’s room-mate, Mrs. Carter. She had deteriorated badly in just the one week since Kelly had started on the third shift at this hospital. For the first couple of days, Mrs. Carter had actually been quite charming, talkative and lucid, had shown Kelly pictures of her grandchildren. Now, her eyes and mouth gaped emptily at the ceiling, and Kelly might easily have taken her for dead. It was very upsetting, and something she doubted she would ever grow used to no matter how many years she stayed in this work.
Mrs. Ferrin went on, “Then she climbed up beside the bed, and put her mouth over Mrs. Carter’s mouth, as if she was…kissing her. Poor Mrs. Carter. I saw her legs move a little and I heard her
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